Humorous  Series. 


THOMAS  HOOD 


Mili  ®l:ooirtuts. 


liEui'l^nrit : 

G.  P.  PUTIMAM  & CO 


Sold  by  all  Bookseller  a 


.I.Vv.ORR.  N.Y. 


THE  FAVORITE  BOOKS  OF  THE  SEASOH. 

RECENTLY  PUBLISHED  BY 

Geo.  P.  Putnam,  10  Park  Place, 


Queechy. 

By  the  author  of  The  Wide,  Wide  World.  The  twelfth  thousand.  2 vofo. 
12mo.,  cloth,  $1  75. 

“ Queechy  is  indeed  a work  of  uncommon  interest  and  ability  ” — Boston  Traveller. 

“ A careful  examination  of  ‘ Queechy’  will,  we  think,  convince  her  admirers,  that  in  her 
former  work  the  author  was  but  pluming  her  wings  for  a bolder  flight.  The  simple  beauty, 
the  deep  interdfet,  enlivened  by  true  humor— the  unobtrusive  but  eal-nest  spirit  of  piety  and 
truth  that  pervade  Queechy — commend  it  to  all.” — Literary  World. 

“ It  is  essentially  a domestic  story,  with  a high  moral  aim ; and  shows  capital  powers  of 
observation,  narrative,  skill  and  excellent  management  of  dialogue.  It  is  just  the  book  for 
an  intelligent  and  exemplary  family  circle.  The  sympathies  of  old  and  young  will  be  elicited, 
and  amusement  be  found  charmingly  blended  with  instruction.” — Home  Journal. 

“ Her  descriptions  are  fresh,  and  fragrant  of  the  scenes  from  which  they  drew  their  in- 
s]3irations.  The  volumes  contain  numerous  gems  of  picturesque  description.  The  work 
certainly  exhibits  a high  order  of  talent ; imagination,  enthusiasm  and  creative  power  are  all 
here.” — 'Tribune. 

“ Queechy  will  prove  as  fascinating  as  its  predecessor.  The  author’s  pyeculiarities  are 
traceable  throughout  the  work.  We  like  them.  There  is  an  odd  mingling  of  different  cha- 
racters,  so  very  different  that  the  reader  has  some  anxiety  lest  the  author  fail  in  the  end. 
These  masterly  strokes  surprise  but  never  disappoint.  Their  purpose  is  always  most  cleverly 
fulfilled.  Aside  from  its  merits  and  attractions  as  a tale,  it  has  a moral  value  that  will  en- 
dear it  to  the  hearts  of  all  readers,  young  and  old.  Its  influence  will  be  most  healthful  and 
lasting ; and  no  parent  need  fear  placing  it  in  the  bands  of  his  child.” — Worcester  Palladium. 

“ The  story  has  great  naturalness  and  kindliness  of  feeling,  a quiet  good  sense,  and  an 
excellent  purpose.  It  is  taken  up  chiefly  with  domestic  feelings  and  rural  scenes  j its  dia- 
logues are  practical  and  its  descriptions  graceful.  The  book  is  thoroughly  imbued  with  the 
genial  atmosphere  of  the  country,  and  is  the  product  of  a true  womanly  nature.” — Courier 
and  Inquirer. 

“The  charm  of  this  writer  consists  in  her  vivid,  graphic  delineations  of  character  and  of 
nature.  Minute  touches  show  the  hand  of  a skilful  discriminator,  and  she  paints  a scene  so 
that  you  can  no  more  forget  it,  than  you  can  one  which  has  been  stamped  upon  your  heart 
])y  a personal  experienee.  A still  higher  merit  of  the  author,  is  that  she  breathes  through  her 
writings,  the  true  spirit  of  religion.”— Gazette. 

“ The  present  work  is  even  more  worthy  of  success  than  the  last ; and  by  its  brilliant  de- 
scriptions, high- wrought  tone  and  accurate  delineations  of  character,  cannot  fail  to  command 
a lofty  position  in  American  romance.” — Albany  Express. 

“ It  has  merits  that  are  even  superior  to  the  almost  faultless  excellence  of  the  Wide, 
Wide  Woi'ld.  It  is  written  in  a more  sparkling,  polished  and  vigorous  style,  and  in  many 
res}3ects  we  like  the  characters  and  general  tone  of  the  work  better.  The  descriptive  powers 
of  the  author  are  very  great,  and  in  many  of  the  almost  matchless  scenes  so  vividly  and  natu- 
rally portrayed  in  ‘Queechy,’  they  are  brought  into  full  play.  We  heartily  recommend  the 
work  to  the  perusal  of  all  our  readers.” — Albany  State  Register. 

^ “Some  of  its  characters  are  sketched  with  an  almost  matchless  skill.  The  long  talk 
which  is  held  between  a nice  little  girl,  and  a stern,  selfish,  misanthropic  old  Englishman, 
who  had  taken  greatly  to  her,  during  ia  residence.in  Paris,  is  so  natural  that  one  almost  seems 
to  hear  the  living  voice,  and  so  significant  of  character,  that  one  involuntarily  pauses,  to 
measure  the  distance  between  the  two  characters  that  are  presented.  ‘ Beside  the  exceeding 
naturalness  of  the  descriptions,  there  is  a sprinkling  of  religious  thought  and  feeling,  through - 
out  the  work,  which  will  recommend  it  to  a large  class  of  readers.” — Albany  Argus. 

“The  demand  for  this  book,  founded  on  the  astonishingly  rapid  reputation  acquired  by 
the  author  in  his  previous  work,  is  altogether  without  precedent.  Every  body  buys  and  reailo 
• Queechy,’  and  every  body  exclaims,  ‘ How  charming !’  The  story  is  told  with  such  livelr- 
ne.ss  and  force,  and  the  narrative  exhibits  such  a boundless  variety  of  scenes,  characters,  and 
incidpnb',  that  a greater  amount  of  entertainment  and  instruction  is  drawn  from  it  than  from 
a,  whole  library  of  ordinary  books.  It  is  for  sale  in  nearly  all  our  hook  stores.” — ScotVs 
Weekly  Papei\  Phila. 


2 


PUTNAM’S  BOOKS  OF  THE  SEASON. 


II. 


TlieW/^e,  Wide  World. 

Elizabeth  Wetiierell.  Sixteenth  ed.  2 vols.  12mo.,  cloth,  $1  50. 


“ The  most  valuable  work  of  the  kind  I have  ever  read.  It  is  capable  of  doin?  more  good 
than  any  book,  other  than  the  Bible.  It  is  more  valuable  than  Bunyan’s  Pilgrim^’s  Progress, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  free  from  doctrinal  and  polemical  matters,  and  by  its  home  scenes,  and  the 
recollections  which  it  excites,  appeals  more  strongly  to  our  sympathies.  Every  Sunday 
School  ought  to  be  furnished  with  a copy,  and  every  child  and  every  parent  should  read  and 
re-read  it.” — Newark  Advertiser. 

“ The  authoress  writes  with  liveliness  and  elegance.  Her  power  of  discriminating  and 
presenting  character  is  great,  and  an  air  of  cheerful  piety  pervades  the  whole  work.” — Lon- 
don  Athenobum. 


“ We  have  looked  over  it  sufficiently  to  form  the  conclusion  that  the  author  is  clever,  not 
deficient  in  sprightliness  of  manner,  and  considerebly  versed  in  good  old  English  reading.”— 
Post. 

“ It  is  not  a love-sick  story,  but  one  in  which  the  various  scenes  of  real  life  are  vividly 
portrayed,  in  a series  of  animated  conversations,  the  interest  of  which  is  well  sustained  to  the 
close.  It  has  a good  moral  ione.”— Hartford  Courant. 

“ Our  eye  has  rested  upon  some  passages  of  fine  writing,  and  some  of  genuine  wit.”— 
Albany  Argus. 

“ We  find  it  lively,  chatty  and  gossiping— sometimes  graceful,  witty  and  always  facile 
and  Springfield  Rep. 


III. 

Dollars  and  Cents. 

By  Amy  Lothrop.  Fourth  ed.  2 vols.  12mo.,  cloth,  $1  50. 

“The  new  novel  under  this  title  which,  in  spite  of  the  name  of  “ Amy  Lothrop,”  which 
appears  on  the  title-page,  we  are  constrained  to  believe  the  work  of  the  same  hand  that  wrote 
‘ The  Wide,  Wide  World’  and  ‘ Queechy.’  As  far  as  we  have  read  it,  it  contains  constant  re- 
semblance to  the  style  of  this  writer,  but  it  strikes  us  a much  better  book  than  either  of  them 
The  rural  scenes,  which  predominate  in  it,  are  admirably  drawn  ; the  characters  have  great 
individuality  and  freshness,  and  the  whole  construction  of  the  story  is  much  more  artistic 
than  either  of  the  two,  other  stories.  It  deserves  a wider  popularity  than  either  of  them  has 
obtained.” — Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin. 

“Our  friend  of  the  'Evening  Bulletin’  has  ushered  these  volumes  into  notice  with  tfie 
Dold  conjecture  that  ‘ Amy  Lothrop’  is  only  another  ruse  of  the  lady  who  has  won  such  golden 
opinions  (golden  eagles  too,  we  trust,)  under  the  name  of  ‘ Elizabeth  Wetherell.’  This  lady’s 
j)ublisher,  as  well  as  herself,  knows  too  well  the  pecuniary  advantage  of  such  an  extraordi- 
nary popuiarity  as  the  ‘Wide,  Wide  World,’  and  ‘ Queechy’  have  obtained,  to  be  ^villing  to 
bring  out  a third  book  from  the  same  pen,  as  a mere  adventure.  We  think,  therefore,  the 
‘ Bulletin’  has  not  been  well  advised  in  its  conjecture.  At  the  same  time,  the  reader  of  ‘ Dol- 
lars and  Cents’  undoubtedly  feels  himself  in  a moral  and  intellectual  atmosphere  so  mucli 
akin  to  that  which  has  charmed  the  world  in  the  other  two  bonks  that  have  been  named,  tha^ 
we  are  not  surprised  at  the  conjecture,  though  we  do  not  admit  its  truth.  Strong  as  are  the 
points  of  resemblance  between  ‘ Elizabeth  Wetherell’  and  ‘Amy  Lothrop’  there  are  yet  dif- 
ferences, general  and  special,  which  we  think  will  strike  the  attentive  reader,  while  both 
these  writers  are  decidedly  religious,  the  religious  sentiment  does  not  so  completely  pervade 
the  work  of  the  latter.  ‘ Dollars  and  Cents,’  as  the  very  title  may  import,  is  more  decidedly 
a worldly  affair.  ‘ Elizabeth  Wetherell’  is  a perpetual  well-spring  of  the  most  tender  pathos  ; 
‘ Amy  Lothrop’  is  a playful  fairy,  who  beguiles  us  much  more  frequently  with  laughter  than 
tears,  and  whose  creatures  address  themselves  more  directly  to  the  fancy  than  the  heart. 

“ But  we  had  no  intention,  on  beginning  this  rambling  paragraph,  of  entering  into  a formal 
disquisition  about  either  of  these  charming  writers.  Our  object  will  have  been  gained,  if  we 
have  succeeded  in  conveying  to  our  readers  the  strong  impression  of  our  own  mind,  that  the 
author  of  ‘ Dollars  and  Cents,’  though  assuredly  ‘ Elizabeth  Wetherell,’  is  yet  destined  to 
rank  in  the  same  noble  sisterhood  of  —Philadelphia  Saturday  Couriei. 


PUTNAM’S 


SEMI-MONTHLY  LIBEART. 


WHIMS  AO  ODDITIES. 


BY  THOMAS  HOOD. 


1^;-^:  M of' 


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WHIMS  AND 


ODDITIES, 


|k  I an^j  f«. 


BY  THOMAS  HOOD. 


A NEW  EDITION. 


pttt  |0rk: 

GEORGE  P.  PUTNAM  & CO.,  10  PARK  PLACE. 


M . DCCC  . LII 


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TO  THE  REVIEWERS. 


What  is  a modern  Poet’s  fate  ? 

To  write  his  thoughts  upon  a slate; — 
The  Critic  spits  on  what  is  done, — 
Gives  it  a wipe, — and  all  is  gone. 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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https://archive.org/details/whimsodditiesinp00hood_2 


PREFACE. 


l^HEN  I last  made  my  best  bow  in  this  book,  I imagined  that  the 
* * public,  to  use  a nautical  phrase,  had  “ parted  from  their  best 
bower but  it  was  an  agreeable  mistake.  The  First  and  Second 
Series  being  now,  like  Colman’s  “ Two  Single  Gentlemen  rolled 
into  one,”  a request  is  made  to  me,  to  furnish  the  two-act  piece 
with  a new  prologue.  Possibly,  as  I have  declared  the  near  rela- 
tionship of  this  work  to  the  Comic  Annual,  the  Publisher  wishes, 
by  this  unusual  number  of  Prefaces,  to  connect  it  also  with  the 
Odes  and  Addresses.  At  all  events,  I accede  to  his  humour,  in 
spite  of  a reasonable  fear  that,  at  this  rate,  my  Sayings  will  soon 
exceed  my  Doings. 

To  tell  the  truth,  an  Author  does  not  much  disrelish  the  call  for 
these  “ more  last  words and  I confess  at  once  that  I affix  this 
preliminary  postscript  with  some  pride  and  pleasure.  A modern 
book,  like  a modern  race-horse,  is  apt  to  be  reckoned  aged  at  six 
years  old ; and  an  Olympiad  and  a half  have  nearly  elapsed  since 
the  birth  of  my  first  editions.  It  is  pleasant,  therefore,  to  find 
that  what  was  done  in  black  and  white  has  not  become  quite  gray 
in  the  interval ; — to  say  nothing  of  the  comfort,  at  such  an  ad- 
vanced age,  of  still  finding  friends  in  public,  as  well  as  in  private, 
to  put  up  with  one’s  Whims  and  Oddities. 

Seriously,  I feel  very  grateful  for  the  kindness  which  has  ex- 
hausted three  impressions  of  this  work,  and  now  invites  another. 
Come  what  may,  this  little  book  will  now  leave  four  imprints  be- 
hind it, — and  a horse  could  do  no  more.  \ 

T.  HOOD. 

WiNCHMOiiE  Hill, 

January^  1832. 


TN  presenting  his  Whims  and  Oddities  to  the  Public,  the  Author 

desires  to  say  a few  words,  which  he  hopes  will  not  swell  into 
a Memoir. 

It  happens  to  most  persons,  in  occasional  lively  moments,  to 
have  their  little  chirping  fancies  and  brain  crotchets,  that  skip  out 
of  the  ordinary  meadow-land  of  the  mind.  The  Author  has  caught 
MSf  and  clapped  them  up  in  paper  and  print,  like  grasshoppers  in 
a cage.  The  judicious  reader  will  look  upon  the  trifling  creatures 
accordingly,  and  not  expect  from  them  the  flights  of  poetical 
winged  horses. 

At  a future  time,  the  Press  may  he  troubled  with  some  things 
of  a more  serious  tone  and  purpose, — which  the  Author  has  re- 
solved upon  publishing,  in  despite  of  the  advice  of  certain  critical 
friends.  His  forte,  they  are  pleased  to  say,  is  decidedly  humor- 
ous ; hut  a gentleman  cannot  always  he  breathing  his  comic  vein. 

It  will  he  seen,  from  the  illustrations  of  the  present  work,  that 
the  Inventor  is  no  artist ; — in  fact,  he  was  never  ‘‘  meant  to  draw” 
— any  more  than  the  tape-tied  curtains  mentioned  by  Mr.  Pope. 
Those  who  look  at  his  designs,  with  Ovid’s  Love  of  Art,  will  there- 
fore be  disappointed; — his  sketches  are  as  rude  and  artless  to 
other  sketches,  as  Ingram’s  rustic  manufacture  to  the  polished 
chair.  The  designer  is  quite  aware  of  their  defects ; hut  when 
Baphael  has  bestowed  seven  odd  legs  upon  four  Apostles,  and 
Fuseli  has  stuck  in  a great  goggle  head  without  an  owner, — • 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION, 


9 


'when  Michael  Angelo  has  set  on  a foot  the  'wrong  "way,  and 
Hogarth  has  painted  in  defiance  of  all  the  laws  of  nature  and 
perspective,  he  does  hope  that  his  own  little  enormities  may  be 
forgiven  — that  his  sketches  may  look  interesting,  like  Lord 
Byron’s  Sleeper, — “ with  all  their  errors.” 

Such  as  they  are,  the  Author  resigns  his  pen-and-ink  fancies 
to  the  public  eye.  He  has  more  designs  in  the  wood ; and  if  the 
present  sample  should  be  relished,  he  will  cut  more,  and  come 
again,  according  to  the  proverb,  with  a New  Series. 

1* 


ADDRESS 


TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


rpHE  first  edition  of  Whims  and  Oddities  being  exhausted,  I am 

called  forward  by  an  importunate  publisher  to  make  my  best 
bow,  and  a new  address,  to  a discerning  and  indulgent  public. 
Unaffectedly  flattered  by  those  who  have  bought  this  little  work, 
and  still  more  bound  to  those  who  have  bound  it,  I adopt  the 
usual  attitude  of  a Thanksgiver,  but  with  more  than  usual  sincer- 
ity. Though  my  head  is  in  Cornhill,  my  hand  is  not  on  my 
Cheapside,  in  making  these  professions.  There  is  a lasting  im- 
pression on  my  heart,  though  there  is  none  on  the  shelves  of  the 
publisher. 

To  the  Reviewers  in  general,  my  gratitude  is  eminently  due,  for 
their  very  impartial  friendliness.  It  would  have  sufficed  to  recon- 
cile me  to  a far  greater  portion  than  I have  met  with  of  critical 
viper-tuperation.  The  candid  journalists,  who  have  condescended 
to  point  out  my  little  errors,  deserve  my  particular  thanks.  It  is 
comely  to  submit  to  the  hand  of  taste  and  the  arm  of  discrimina- 
tion ; and  with  the  head  of  deference  I shall  endeavour  to  amend 
(with  one  exception)  in  a New  Series. 

I am  informed  that  certain  monthly,  weekly,  and  very  many 
every-day  critics  have  taken  great  offence  at  my  puns : — and  I can 
conceive  how  some  Gentlemen  with  one  idea  must  be  perplexed 
by  a double  meaning.  To  my  own  notion,  a pun  is  an  accommo- 
dating word,  like  a farmer’s  horse, — with  a pillion  for  an  extra 
sense  to  ride  behind ; — ^it  will  carry  single,  however,  if  required. 
The  Dennises  are  merely  a sect,  and  I had  no  design  to  please, 
exclusively,  those  verbal  Unitarians. 

Having  made  this  brief  explanation  and  acknowledgment,  I beg 
leave,  like  the  ghost  of  the  royal  Dane,  to  say  Farewell  at  once,” 
and  commend  my  remembrance  and  my  book  together,  to  the  kind- 
ness of  the  courteous  reader. 


ADDRESS 


TO  THE  THIRD  EDITION. 


TT  is  not  usual  to  have  more  than  one  grace  before  meat — one 

prologue  before  a play — one  address  before  a work, — Cerberus 
and  myself  are  perhaps  the  only  persons  who  have  had  three  pref- 
aces. I thought,  indeed,  that  I had  said  my  last  in  the  last 
impression ; but  a new  Edition  being  called  for,  I came  forward 
for  a new  exit,  after  the  fashion  of  Mr.  Komeo  Coates — a Gentle- 
man, notorious,  like  Autumn,  for  taking  a great  many  leaves  at 
his  departure. 

As  a literary  parent,  I am  highly  gratified  to  find  that  the  elder 
volume  of  Whims  and  Oddities  does  not  get  snubbed,  as  happens 
with  a first  child  at  the  birth  of  a second ; but  that  the  Old  and 
New  Series  obtain  fresh  favour  and  friends  for  each  other,  and 
are  likely  to  walk  hand  in  hand,  like  smiling  brothers,  towards 
posterity. 

Whether  a third  volume  will  transpire,  is  a secret  still  “ war- 
ranted undi*awn”  even  to  myself ; — there  is,  I am  aware,  a kind 
of  nonsense  indispensable, — or  sine  qua  non-sense, — ^that  always 
comes  in  welcomely  to  relieve  the  serious  discussions  of  graver 
authors,  and  I fiatter  myself  that  my  performances  may  be  of  this 
nature ; but  having  parted  with  so  many  of  my  vagaries,  I am 
doubtful  whether  the  next  November  may  not  find  me  sobered 
down  into  a political  economist. 


CONTENTS 


December  and  May  - 

. 

Page 
- 13 

A Legend  of  Navarre 

Page 
- 105 

Moral  Reflections  on  the 

Cross 

of 

The  Progress  of  Art  - 

- 113 

St.  Paul’s  - - - 

- 

14 

A School  for  Adults  - 

- 117 

The  Prayse  of  Ignorance  - 

16 

The  Demon-ship 

- 123 

A Valentine  - - - 

19 

Sally  Holt,  and  the  Death  of  John 

A Recipe — for  Civilization 

21 

Hayloft  - - - 

- 127 

Love  ----- 

27 

A True  Story  - - - 

- 132 

“ Please  to  ring  the  Belle” 

28 

The  Decline  of  Mrs.  Shakerly 

- 139 

My  Son,  Sir  - - - 

29 

The  Monkey-Martyr 

- 142 

On  the  Popular  Cupid 

30 

Banditti  - - - 

- 147 

The  Spoiled  Child  - 

32 

Craniology  - - - - 

- 150 

“ Sally  Brown,  and  Ben  the  Carpen- 

An  Aflair  of  Honour 

- 154 

ter”  - - - - 

36 

“ Nothing  but  Hearts !”  - 

- 156 

A Complaint  against  Greatness 

39 

A Parthian  Glance  - 

- 160 

The  Mermaid  of  Margate  - 

43 

The  Wee  Man  - - - 

- 163 

A Fairy  Tale  - - - 

47 

A Sailor’s  Apology  for  Bow-legs 

- 165 

Fancies  on  a Tea-cup 

51 

Pythagorean  Fancies 

- 168 

Equestrian  Courtship 

54 

“ Don’t  you  smell  Fire  ?”  - 

- 173 

“ She  is  far  from  the  Land” 

55 

An  Absentee  - . - 

- 175 

The  Stag-eyed  Lady  - 

60 

A Marriage  Procession 

- 179 

Walton  Redivivus  - 

65 

The  Widow  - - - 

- 183 

A New  Life-preserver 

71 

A Mad  Dog  - - - 

- 187 

Love  Me,  love  my  Dog” 

74 

A May-day  - - - - 

- 191 

A Dream  - - - . 

79 

Ode  to  the  Cameleopard 

- 198 

The  Sea-spell  - - - 

88 

Ode  to  Dr.  Hahnemann  - 

- 201 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray  • 

94 

The  Fresh  Horse 

- 206 

Fancy  Portraits  - - - 

97 

An  Intercepted  Despatch  - 

- 212 

The  Morning  Call 

102 

WHIMS  AHD  ODDITIES. 


-"4  »» 

gtrfmtor  anil  Pag. 

“ Crabbed  Age  and  Youth  cannot  live  together.’^ 

Shakspeare. 


I. 

0 AID  Nestor,  to  his  pretty  wife,  quite  sorrowful  one  day, 

h-'  a Why,  dearest,  will  you  shed  in  pearls  those  lovely  eyes  away  ? 
You  ought  to  be  more  fortified  “ Ah,  brute,  he  quiet,  do, 

1 know  I’m  not  so  fortyfied,  nor  fiftyfied,  as  you ! 

II. 

**  Oh,  men  are  vile  deceivers  all,  as  I have  ever  heard. 

You’d  die  for  me,  you  swore,  and  I — I took  you  at  your  word. 

I was  a tradesman’s  widow  then — a pretty  change  I’ve  made ; 

To  live,  and  die  the  wife  of  one,  a widower  by  trade !” 

III. 

Come,  come,  my  dear,  these  flighty  airs  declare,  in  sober  truth, 
You  want  as  much  in  age,  indeed,  as  I can  want  in  youth ; 
Besides,  you  said  you  liked  old  men,  though  now  at  me  you  huff.’' 
“Why,  yes,”  she  said,  “and  so  I do — ^but  you’re  not  old  enough!” 

IV. 

“ Come,  come,  my  dear,  let’s  make  it  up,  and  have  a quiet  hive ; 
I’ll  he  the  best  of  men, — I mean — I’ll  be  the  best  alive  ! 

Your  grieving  so  will  kill  me,  for  it  cuts  me  to  the  core.” — 

“ I thank  ye,  Sk,  for  telling  me — for  now  I’ll  grieve  the  more  T' 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  GROSS  OF  ST.  PAUL'S. 


fjifdmiis  m fl|f  Oi;r0ss  of  Sf.  faurs. 

rpHE  man  that  pays  his  pence,  and  goes 
Up  to  thy  lofty  cross,  St.  Paul, 

Looks  over  London’s  naked  nose, 

Women  and  men  : 

The  world  is  all  beneath  his  ken, 

He  sits  above  the  Ball. 

He  seems  on  Mount  Olympus’  top, 

Among  the  Gods,  by  Jupiter ! and  lets  drop 
His  eyes  from  the  empyreal  clouds 
On  mortal  crowds. 

Seen  from  these  skies, 

How  small  those  emmets  in  our  eyes ! 

Some  cariy^  little  sticks — and  one 
His  eggs — to  warm  them  in  the  sun  : 

Dear ! what  a hustle, 

And  bustle ! 

And  there’s  my  aunt.  I know  her  by  her  waist, 
So  long  and  thin, 

And  so  pinch’d  in. 

Just  in  the  pismire  taste. 

Oh ! what  are  men  ? — Beings  so  small, 

That,  should  I fall 
Upon  their  little  heads,  1 must 
Crush  them  by  hundreds  into  dust ! 

And  what  is  life  ? and  all  its  ages — 

There’s  seven  stages ! 

Turnham  Green ! Chelsea ! Putney ! Fulham  ! 
Brentford ! and  Kew  ! 

And  Tooting,  too ! 

And  oh ! what  very  little  nags  to  pull  ’em. 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  CROSS  OF  ST,  FAUNS.  15 


Yet  each  would  seem  a horse  indeed, 

If  here  at  Paul’s  tip-top  we’d  got  ’em ; 

Although,  like  Cinderella’s  breed, 

They  ’re  mice  at  bottom. 

Then  let  me  not  despise  a horse. 

Though  he  looks  small  from  Paul’s  high-cross ! 

Since  he  would  be, — as  near  the  sky, 

— Fourteen  hands  high. 

What  is  this  world  with  London  in  its  lap  ? 

Mogg’s  Map. 

The  Thames,  that  ebbs  and  flows  in  its  broad  channel  ? 
A tidy  kennel. 

The  bridges  stretching  from  its  banks  ? 

Stone  planks. 

Oh  me ! hence  could  I read  an  admonition 
To  mad  Ambition ! 

But  that  he  would  not  listen  to  my  call, 

Though  I should  stand  upon  the  cross,  and  hall ! 


VERY  DEAF,  INDEED. 


16 


TEE  PBAYSE  OF  IGNOBAEQE. 


%\lt  j(rf  IgMtHKa. 

AN  EXTRACT  FROM  AN  ORATION  DELIVERED  BEFORE  THE  MOST  GRAVE  AND 
LEARNED  FACULTY  OF  PADUA,  BY  THE  ADMIRABLE  CRICHTON. 

T\J O W your  Clowne  knoweth  none  of  the  . Booke-man’s 
^ troubles,  and  his  dayes  be  the  longer : for  he  doth  not 
vault  upon  the  fierie  Pegasus,  but  jumpes  merrilye  upon  old 
Ball,  who  is  a cart-horse,  and  singeth  another  man’s  song, 
which  hath,  it  may  be,  thirty  and  six  verses,  and  a burden 
withal,  and  goes  to  a tune  which  no  man  knows  but  himself. 
Alsoe,  he  wooes  the  ruddye  Cicely,  which  is  not  a Muse,  but 
as  comely  a maide  of  fleshe  as  needes  be,  and  many  daintye 
ballades  are  made  of  their  loves,  as  may  be  read  in  our 
Poets,  their  Pastoralls ; only  that  therein  he  is  called  Damon, 
which  standes  for  Roger,  and  Cicely  belike  is  ycleped  Sylvia, 
as  belongs  to  their  pastorall  abodes.  Where  they  lead  soe 
happye  life  as  to  stir  up  envye  in  the  towne’s  women,  who 
would  faine  become  Shepherdesses,  by  hook  and  by  crook, 
and  get  green  gownes,  and  lay  down  upon  the  sweet  verdant 
grass.  Oh,  how  pleasauntly  they  sit  all  the  daye  long  under 
a shady  tree,  to  hear  the  young  lambes ; but  at  night  they 
listen 'to  the  plaintive  Phil om ell,  and  the  gallaunts  doe  make 
them  chappelets : or,  if  it  chance  to  be  May,  they  goe  a 
Mayinge,  whilst  the  yonge  buds  smell  sweetlye,  and  the 
littel  birdesare  whistlynge  and  hoppynge  all  about. 

Then  Roger  and  Cicely  sit  adowne  under  the  white  haw- 
thorne,  and  he  malces  love  to  her  in  a shepherdlike  waye,  in 
the  midst  of  her  flocke.  She  doth  not  minde  sheepes’-eyes. 
Even  like  Cupid  and  Psyche,  as  they  are  set  forthe  by  a 


THE  FliAYSE  OF  IGNOEANOE, 


17 


cuiming  Flemislie  Limner,  as  hath  been  my  hap  to  behold  in 
the  Low  Cbuntrye,  wherein  Cupid,  with  his  one  hand,  is  a 
toyinge  with  the  haires  of  his  head ; but  with  the  other  he 
handleth  the  fair  neck  of  his  mistresse,  who  sitteth  discree tlye 
upon  a flowerie  bank,  and  lookes  down  as  beseem es  upon  her 
shoon ; for  she  is  vain  of  her  modesty e.  This  I have  seen  at 
the  Hague. 

And  Roger  sayth,  0 Cicely,  Cicely,  how  prettye  you  be ; 
whereat  she  doth  open  her  mouth,  and  smiles  loudly^;  which, 
when  he  heares,  he  sayth  again.  Nay,  but  I doe  love  thee 
passing  well,  and  with  that  lays  a loud  buss  upon  her  cheek, 
which  cannot  blushe  by  reason  of  its  perfect  ruddynesse. 
Anon,  he  spreadeth  in  her  lap  the  pink  ribbands  which  he 
bought  at  the  wake,  for  her  busking,  and  alsoe  a great  cake 
of  ginger  brede,  which  causeth  her  heart  to  be  in  her  mouthe. 
Then,  quoth  he.  The  little  Robins  have  got  their  mates,  and 
the  pretty  Finches  be  all  paired,  and  why  sholde  not  we  % 
And,  quoth  she,  as  he  kisseth  her,  O Robin,  Robin,  you  be 
such  a sweet  billed  bird,  that  I must  needes  crye  “Aye.” 
Wherefore,  on  the  Sunday e,  they  go  to  the  Parishe  Churche, 
that  they  may  be  joyned  into  one,  and  be  no  more  single. 
Whither  they  walk  tenderlye  upon  their  toes,  as  if  they 
stepped  all  the  waye  upon  egges.  And  Roger  hath  a brave 
bowpot  at  his  bosom,  which  is  full  of  Heart’s  Ease ; but 
Cicely  is  decked  with  ribbands,  a knot  here  and  a knot  there, 
and  her  head  is  furnished  after  a daintye  fashion,  soe  that  she 
wishes,  belike,  that  she  was  Roger  to  see  herselfe  all  round 
about,  and  content  her  eyes  upon  her  own  devices.  Whereas, 
Roger  smells  to  his  nosegay  e;  but  his  looks  travel  as  the 
crabbe  goeth,  which  is  side-wayes,  towards  Cicely  ; and  he 
smiles  sweetlye,  to  think  how  that  he  is  going  to  be  made  a 
husband-man,  and  alsoe  of  the  good  cheere  which  there  will 
be  to  eat  that  daye.  Soe  he  walks  up  to  the  altar  with  a 


18 


TEE  PEAYSE  OF  IGNORANCE. 


stoute  liarte ; and  when  the  parson  hath  made  an  ende,  he 
kisseth  Cicely  afreshe,  and  their  markes  are  registered  as  man 
and  wife  in  the  church  bokes. 

After  which,  some  threescore  yeares,  it  may  befall  you  to 
light  on  a grave-stone,  and,  on  the  wood  thereof,  to  read  as 
followeth : — 

“ Here  I bee  Eoger  Eackstrawe,  which  did  live  at  Dipmore 
Ende,  of  this  parishe — but  now  in  this  tomb. 

“ Time  was  that  I did  so  we  and  plough, 

That  lyes  beneathe  the  furrowes  now  ; 

But  though  Death  sowes  me  with  his  graine, 

I knowe  that  I shall  spring  againe.’’ 

Now,  is  not  this  a life  to  be  envyde  which  needefh  so 
many  men’s  paynes  to  paint  its  pleasures  % For,  saving  the 
Law  clerkes,  it  is  set  forth  by  all  that  write  upon  sheepe’s 
skins,  even  the  makers  of  pastoralls : wherein  your  Clown  is 
constantly  a figure  of  Poetry — being  all  way  es  amongst  the 
leaves.  He  is  their  Jack-i’-the-Green. — Wherefore  I crye,  for 
my  owne  part,  O ! that  I were  a Boore ! Oh  ! that  I were  a 
Boore ! that  troubleth  no  man,  and  is  troubled  of  none.  Who 
is  written,  wherein  he  cannot  reade,  and  is  mayde  into  Poetry, 
that  yet  is  no  Poet ; for  how  sholde  he  make  songs  that 
knoweth  not  King  Cadmus,  his  alphabet  to  prickle  them  down 
withal  ? 

Seeing  that  he  is  nowayes  learnede,  nor  hath  never  bitten 
of  the  Apple  of  Knowledge — which  was  but  a sowre  crabbe 
apple,  whereby  Adam  his  wisdom-teeth  were  set  on  edge. 
Wherefore,  he  is  much  more  a happye  man,  saying  unto  his 
lusty  yonge  Dame,  We  twaine  be  one  fleshe. — But  the  Poet 
sayth  to  his  mate.  Thou  art  skin  of  my  skin,  and  bone  of  my 
bone ; soe  that  this  saying  is  not  a paradoxe, — That  the  Boke 
Man  is  a Dunce  in  being  Wise, — and  the  Clowne  is  Wise,  in 
being  a Dunce. 


A VALENTINE, 


19 


MISS  TEEE. 


JL  Ualcntint 

QH  ! cruel  heart ! ere  these  posthumous  papers 
Have  met  thine  eyes,  I shall  be  out  of  breath ; 
Those  cruel  eyes,  like  two  fuuereal  tapers, 

Have  only  lighted  me  the  way  to  death. 
Perchance,  thou  wilt  extinguish  them  in  vapours, 
When  I am  gone,  and  green  grass  covereth 
Thy  lover,  lost ; hut  it  will  be  in  vain — 

It  will  not  bring  the  vital  spark  again. 

Ah ! when  those  eyes,  like  tapers,  hurn’d  so  blue, 
It  seemed  an  omen  that  we  must  expect 
The  sprites  of  lovers  : and  it  boded  true, 

For  I am  half  a sprite — a ghost  elect; 


20 


A VALEj^TINE. 


Wherefore  I write  to  thee  this  last  adieu, 

With  my  last  i^eii — before  that  I effect 
My  exit  from  the  stage;  just  stopp’d  before 
The  tombstone  steps  that  lead  us  to  death’s  door. 

Full  soon  these  living  eyes,  now  liquid  bright, 

Will  turn  dead  duU,  and  wear  no  radiance,  save 
They  shed  a dreary  and  inhuman  light, 

Illum’d  within  by  glow-w^orms  of  the  grave ; 
These  ruddy  cheeks,  so  pleasant  to  the  sight, 

These  lusty  legs,  and  all  the  limbs  I have. 

Will  keep  Death’s  carnival,  and,  foul  or  fresh. 

Must  bid  fai’ewell,  a long  farewell  to  flesh! 

Yea,  and  this  very  heart,  that  dies  for  thee, 

As  broken  victuals  to  the  w^orms  will  go ; 

And  all  the  world  will  dine  again  but  me — 

For  I shall  have  no  stomach; — and  I know, 

When  I am  ghostly,  thou  wilt  sprightly  be 
As  now  thou  art : but  will  not  tears  of  woe 
Water  thy  spirits,  with  remorse  adjunct. 

When  thou  dost  pause,  and  think  of  the  defunct  ? 

And  when  thy  soul  is  buried  in  a sleep. 

In  midnight  solitude,  and  little  dreaming 
Of  such  a spectre — what,  if  I should  creep. 

Within  thy  presence  in  such  dismal  seeming  ? 
Thine  eyes  will  stare  themselves  awake,  and  weep, 
And  thou  wilt  cross  thyself  with  treble  screaming 
And  pray  with  mingled  penitence  and  dread 
That  I were  less  alive — or  not  so  dead. 

Then  will  thy  heart  confess  thee,  and  reprove 
This  wilful  homicide  which  thou  hast  done : 

And  the  sad  epitaph  of  so  much  love 
Will  eat  into  my  heart,  as  if  in  stone : 


A llECIPE-FOR  CIVILIZATION 


21 


And  all  the  lovers  that  around  thee  move, 

Will  read  my  fate,  and  tremble  for  their  own ; 

And  strike  upon  their  heartless  breasts,  and  sigh, 
Man,  born  of  woman,  must  of  woman  die  !’* 

Mine  eyes  grow  dropsical — I can  no  more — • 

And  what  is  written  thou  may’st  scorn  to  read. 
Shutting  thy  tearless  eyes. — ’Tis  done — ^’tis  o’er — 
My  hand  is  destin’d  for  another  deed. 

But  one  last  word  wrung  from  its  aching  core, 

And  my  lone  heart  in  silentness  will  bleed ; 

Alas ! it  ought  to  take  a life  to  tell 

That  one  last  word — that  fare — fare — fare  thee  well ! 


The  following  Poem — is  from  the  pen  of  DOCTOR  KITCHENER ! — 
the  most  heterogeneous  of  authors,  hut  at  the  same  time — in  the  Sporting 
Latin  of  Mr.  Egan — a real  Homo-ffenim,  or  a Genius  of  a Man ! In  the 
Poem,  his  CULINARY  ENTHUSIASM,  as  usual — boils  over!  and 
makes  it  seem  written,  as  he  describes  himself  (see  The  Cook’s  Oracle) 
— with  the  Spit  in  one  hand  ! — and  the  Frying  Pan  in  the  other, — while 
in  the  style  of  the  rhymes  it  is  Hudibrastic, — as  if  in  the  ingredients  of 
Versification,  he  had  been  assisted  by  his  BUTLER ! 

As  a Head  Cook,  Optician — Physician,  Music  Master — Domestic  Econo- 
mist and  Death-bed  Attorney ! — I have  celebrated  The  Author  elsewhere 
with  approbation  ; — and  cannot  now  place  him  upon  the  Table  as  a Poet^ 
— without  still  being  his  LAUDER,  a phrase  which  those  persons  whose 
course  of  classical  reading  recalls  the  INFAMOUS  FORGERY  on  the 
Immortal  Bard  of  Avon  ! ^will  find  easy  to  understand. 

OURELY,  those  sages  err  who  teach 
^ That  man  is  known  from  brutes  by  speech, 

Which  hardly  severs  man  from  woman. 

But  not  th’  inhuman  from  the  human — 


22 


A RECIPE— FOR  CIVILIZATIOK 


Or  else  might  parrots  claim  affinity, 

And  dogs  be  doctors  by  latinity, — 

Not  t’  insist,  (as  might  be  shown,) 

That  beasts  have  gibberish  of  their  own, 
Which  once  was  no  dead  tongue,  tho’  we 
Since  Esop’s  days  have  lost  the  key ; 

Nor  yet  to  hint  dumb  men, — and,  still,  not 
Beasts  that  could  gossip  though  they  will  not. 
But  play  at  dummy  like  the  monkeys. 

For  fear  mankind  should  make  them  flunkies. 
Neither  can  man  be  known  by  feature 
Or  form,  because  so  like  a creature. 

That  some  grave  men  could  never  shape 
Which  is  the  aped  and  which  the  ape. 

Nor  by  his  gait,  nor  by  his  height. 

Nor  yet  because  he’s  black  or  white. 

But  rational, — for  so  we  call 
The  only  Cooking  Animal  ! 

The  only  one  who  brings  his  bit 
Of  dinner  to  the  pot  or  spit. 

For  where’s  the  lion  e’er  was  hasty. 

To  put  his  ven’son  in  a pasty  ? 

Ergo,  by  logic,  we  repute. 

That  he  who  cooks  is  not  a brute, — 

But  Equus  brutum  est,  which  means. 

If  a horse  had  sense  he’d  boil  his  beans. 

Nay,  no  one  but  a horse  would  forage 
On  naked  oats  instead  of  porridge. 

Which  proves,  if  brutes  and  Scotchmen  vary, 
The  difference  is  culinary. 

Further,  as  man  is  known  by  feeding 
From  brutes, — so  men  from  men,  in  breeding 
Are  still  distinguished  as  they  eat. 

And  raw  in  manners,  raw  in  meat, — 

Look  at  the  polish’d  nations,  bight 
The  civilized — the  most  polite 


A RECIPE— FOR  CIVILIZATION, 


23 


Is  that  which  bears  the  praise  of  nations 
For  di’essing  eggs  two  hundred  fashions, 
Whereas,  at  savage  feeders  look, — 

'The  less  refined  the  less  they  eook; 

From  Tartar  grooms  that  merely  straddle 
Across  a steak  and  warm  their  saddle, 

Down  to  the  Abyssinian  squaw, 

That  bolts  her  ehops  and  eollops  raw. 

And,  like  a wild  beast,  eares  as  little 
To  dress  her  person  as  her  victual, — 

For  gowns,  and  gloves,  and  caps,  and  tippets, 
Are  beauty^s  sauces,  spice,  and  sippets. 

And  not  by  shamble  bodies  put  on. 

But  those  who  roast  and  boil  their  mutton ; 
So  Eve  and  Adam  wore  no  dresses 
Because  they  lived  on  water  eresses, 

Aiid  till  they  learn’d  to  cook  their  crudities. 
Went  blind  as  beetles  to  their  nudities. 

For  niceness  comes  from  th’  inner  side, 

(As  an  ox  is  drest  before  his  hide,) 

And  when  the  entrail  loathes  vulgarity 
The  outward  man  will  soon  cull  rarity. 

For  Tis  th’  effect  of  what  we  eat 
To  make  a man  look  like  his  meat. 

As  insects  show  their  food’s  complexions ; 
Thus  fopling  clothes  are  like  confections. 

But  who,  to  feed  a jaunty  coxcomb, 

Would  have  an  Abyssinian  ox  come  ? 

Or  serve  a dish  of  fricassees. 

To  clodpoles  in  a coat  of  frize  ? 

Whereas  a blaek  would  call  for  buffalo 
Alive — and,  no  doubt,  eat  the  offal  too. 

Now,  (this  premised,)  it  follows  then 
That  certain  culinary  men 
Should  first  go  forth  with  pans  and  spits 
To  bring  the  heathens  to  their  wits. 


24 


A RECIPE— FOR  CIVILIZATION, 


(For  all  wise  Scotchmen  of  our  century 
Know  that  first  steps  are  alimentary ; 

And,  as  we  have  proved,  flesh  pots  and  saucepans 
Must  pave  the  way  for  Wilherforce  plans ;) 

But  Bunyan  err’d  to  think  the  near  gate 
To  take  man’s  soul,  was  battering  Ear  gate, 
When  reason  should  have  work’d  her  course 
As  men  of  war  do — when  their  force 
Can’t  take  a town  by  open  courage, 

They  steal  an  entry  with  its  forage. 

WTiat  reverend  bishop,  for  example. 

Could  preach  horn’d  Apis  from  his  temple  ? 
Whereas  a cook  would  soon  unseat  him. 

And  make  his  own  churchwardens  eat  him. 

Not  Irving  could  convert  those  vermin 
Th’  Anthropophages,  by  a sermon ; 

Whereas  your  Osborne,*  in  a trice. 

Would  take  a shin  of  beef  and  spice,” — 

And  raise  them  such  a savoury  smother. 

No  negro  would  devour  his  brother. 

But  turn  his  stomach  round  as  loth 
As  Persians,  to  the  old  black  broth, — 

For  knowledge  oftenest  makes  an  entry, 

As  well  as  true  love,  thro’  the  pantry, 

WTiere  beaux  that  came  at  first  for  feeding 
Grow  gallant  men  and  get  good  breedmg ; — 
Exempli  gratia — in  the  West, 

Ship-traders  say  there  swims  a nest 
Lin’d  with  black  natives,  like  a rookery. 

But  coarse  as  carrion  crows  at  cookery.— 

This  race,  though  now  call’d  O.  Y.  E.  men, 

(To  show  they  are  more  than  A.  B C.  men,) 

Was  once  so  ignorant  of  our  knacks 
They  laid  their  mats  upon  their  backs, 

* Cook  to  the  late  Sir  John  Banks. 


A EEGIPE—FOR  CIVILIZATION, 


25 


And  grew  their  quai’tern  loaves  for  luncheon 
On  trees  that  baked  them  in  the  sunshine. 

As  for  their  bodies,  they  were  coated, 

(For  painted  things  are  so  denoted;) 

But,  the  naked  truth  is  stark  primevals. 

That  said  their  prayers  to  timber  devils, 

Allow’d  polygamy — dwelt  in  wig-wams — - 
And,  when  they  meant  a feast,  ate  big  yams. — 
And  why  ? — because  their  savage  nook 
Had  ne’er  been  visited  by  Cook, — 

And  so  they  fared  till  our  great  chief. 

Brought  them,  not  Methodists,  but  beef 
In  tubs, — and  taught  them  how  to  live, 
Knowing  it  was  too  soon  to  give. 

Just  then,  a homily  on  their  sins, 

(For  cooking  ends  ere  grace  begins,) 

Or  hand  his  tracts  to  the  untractable 
Till  they  could  keep  a more  exact  table — 

For  nature  has  her  proper  courses. 

And  wild  men  must  be  back’d  like  horses. 
Which,  jockeys  know,  are  never  fit 
For  riding  till  they ’ve  had  a bit 
I’  the  mouth ; but  then,  with  proper  tackle. 

You  may  trot  them  to  a tabernacle. 

Ergo  (I  say)  he  first  made  changes 
In  the  heathen  modes,  by  kitchen  ranges, 

And  taught  the  king’s  cook,  by  convincing 
Process,  that  chewing  was  not  mincing. 

And  in  her  black  fist  thrust  a bundle 
Of  tracts  abridg’d  from  Glasse  and  Rundell, 
Where,  ere  she  had  read  beyond  Welsh  rabbits, 
She  saw  the  spareness  of  her  habits. 

And  round  her  loins  put  on  a striped 
Towel,  where  fingers  might  be  wiped. 

And  then  her  breast  clothed  like  her  ribs, 

(For  aprons  lead  of  course  to  bibs,) 

2 


26 


A RECIFE— FOE  CIVILIZATIOK 


And,  by  the  time  she  had  got  a meat- 
Screen,  veil’d  her  back,  too,  from  the  heat — 
As  for  her  gravies  and  her  sauces, 

(Tho’  they  reform’d  the  royal  fauces,) 

Her  forcemeats  and  ragouts, — I praise  not. 
Because  the  legend  further  says  not, 

Except,  she  kept  each  Christian  high-day, 
And  once  upon  a fat  good  Fry-day 
Ran  short  of  logs,  and  told  the  Pagan, 

That  turn’d  the  spit,  to  chop  up  Dagon ! — 


“the  cook’s  obaole.” 


LOVE, 


27 


A LOVE  ! "what  art  thou,  Love  ? the  ace  of  hearts, 

^ Trumping  earth’s  kings  and  queens,  and  all  its  suits; 
A player,  masquerading  many  parts 

In  life’s  odd  carnival ; — a hoy  that  shoots. 

From  ladies’  eyes,  such  mortal  woundy  darts ; 

A gardener,  pulling  heart’s-ease  up  by  the  roots ; 

The  Puck  of  Passion — partly  false — part  real — 

A marriageable  maiden’s  ‘‘  beau  ideal.” 

O Love ! what  art  thou.  Love  ? a wicked  thing. 

Making  green  misses  spoil  their  work  at  school  ? 

A melancholy  man,  cross-gartering  ? 

Grave  ripe-fac’d  wisdom  made  an  April  fool  ? 

A youngster  tilting  at  a wedding  ring  ? 

A sinner,  sitting  on  a cut  tie  stool  ? 

A Ferdinand  de  Something  in  a hovel? 

Helping  Matilda  Hose  to  make  a novel  ? 

O Love ! what  art  thou.  Love  ? one  that  is  bad 
With  palpitations  of  the  heart — like  mine — 

A poor  bewilder’d  maid,  making  so  sad 
A necklace  of  her  garters — fell  design ! 

A poet,  gone  unreasonably  mad. 

Ending  his  sonnets  with  a hempen  line  ? 

O Love ! — but  whither,  now  ? forgive  me,  pray ; 

I’m  not  the  first  that  Love  hath  led  astray. 


28 


‘^FLEASE  TO  EING  THE  BELIEF 


to  ring  irllr.” 

I. 

T’LL  tell  you  a story  that’s  not  in  Tom  Moore : — 
Young  Love  likes  to  knock  at  a pretty  girl’s  door : 
So  he  call’d  upon  Lucy — ’twas  just  ten  o’clock — 

Like  a spruce  single  man,  with  a smart  double  knock. 


II. 

Now  a hand-maid,  whatever  her  fingers  he  at. 

Will  run  like  a puss  when  she  hears  a rat-tot : 

So  Lucy  ran  up — and  in  two  seconds  more 

Had  questioned  the  stranger  and  answer’d  the  door. 

III. 

The  meeting  was  bliss ; hut  the  parting  was  woe : 

For  the  moment  will  come  when  such  comers  must  go ; 
So  she  kiss’d  him,  and  whisper’d — poor  innocent  thing — 
The  next  time  you  come,  love,  pray  come  with  a ring.” 


MY  aON,  SIB. 


29 


Ps  Sfln,  Sir. 

IT  happened,  the  other  evening,  that,  intending  to  call  in 

L Street,  I arrived  a few  minutes  before  Hyson ; 

when  W , seated  beside  the  Urn,  his  eyes  shaded  by 

his  hand,  was  catechising  his  learned  progeny,  the  Master 
Hopeful,  as  if  for  a tea-table  degree.  It  was  a whimsical 
contrast,  between  the  fretful,  pouting  visage  of  the  urchin, 
having  his  gums  rubbed  so  painfully,  to  bring  forward  his 
wisdom-tooth,  and  the  parental  visage,  sage,  solemn,  and 
satisfied,  and  appealing  ever  and  anon,  by  a dramatic  side 
look,  to  the  circle  of  smirking  auditors. 

W was  fond  of  this  kind  of  display,  eternally  stirring 

up  the  child  for  exhibition  with  his  troublesome  long  pole, — 
besides  lecturing  him  through  the  diurnal  vacations  so  tedi- 
ously, that  the  poor  urchin  was  fain, — for  the  sake  of  a little 
play, — to  get  into  school  again. 

I hate  all  forcing-frames  for  the  young  intellect, — and  the 
Loclce  system,  which  after  all  is  but  a Canal  system  for  rais- 


80 


ON  THE  POPULAR  CUPID. 


ing  the  babe-mind  to  unnatural  levels.  I pity  the  poor  child, 
that  is  learned  in  alpha  beta,  but  ignorant  of  top  and  taw — 
and  was  never  so  malieiously  gratified,  as  when,  in  spite  of 

all  his  promptings  and  leading  questions,  I beheld  W , 

reddening,  even  to  the  conscious  tips  of  his  tingling  ears,  at 
the  boy’s  untimely  inaptitude.  Why  could  he  not  rest  con- 
tented, when  the  poor  imp  had  answered  him  already  “What 
was  a Roman  Emperor  T — without  requiring  an  interpreta- 
tion of  the  Logos  ? 

4-*-^ 


©n  |p0plar 

The  figure  above  was  copied,  by  permission,  from  a lady’s 
Valentine.  To  the  common  apprehension,  it  represents 
only  a miracle  of  stall-feeding — a babe  Lambert — a caravan- 


Oisr  THE  POrVLAR  CUPID. 


31 


prodigy  of  grossness ; but,  in  the  rona antic  mythology,  it  is 
the  image  of  the  Divinity  of  Love. 

In  sober  verity.  Does  such  an  incubus  oppress  the  female 
bosom  t Can  such  a monster  of  obesity  be  coeval  with  the 
gossamer  natures  of  Sylph  and  Fairy  in  the  juvenile  faith  ] 
Is  this  he — the  buoyant  Camdeo — that,  in  the  mind’s  eye  of 
the  poetess,  drifts  adown  the  Ganges  in  a lotus  1 — 

Pillow’d  in  a lotus  flow’r, 

Gather’d  in  a summer  hour, 

Floats  he  o’er  the  mountain  wave, 

Which  would  be  a tall  ship’s  grave  !’* 

Is  this  personage  the  disproportionate  partner  for  whom 
Pastorella  sigheth — in  the  smallest  of  cots  ? Does  the 
platonic  Amanda  (who  is  all  soul)  refer,  in  her  discourses  on 
Love,  to  this  palpable  being,  who  is  all  body  1 Or  does 
Belinda  indeed  believe  that  such  a substantial  Sagittarius 
lies  ambush’d  in  her  perilous  blue  eye  ? 

It  is  in  the  legend,  that  a girl  of  Provence  was  smitten 
once,  and  died,  by  the  marble  Apollo : but  did  impassioned 
damsel  ever  dote,  and  wither,  beside  the  pedestal  of  this  pre- 
posterous effigy  ? or  rather,  is  not  the  unseemly  emblem 
accountable  for  the  coyness  and  proverbial  reluctance  of 
maidens  to  the  approaches  of  Love  ? 

I can  believe  in  his  dwelling  alone  in  the  heart — seeing  that 
he  must  occupy  it  to  repletion  : in  his  constancy — because  he 
looks  sedentary,  and  not  apt  to  roam.  That  he  is  given  to 
melt — from  his  great  pinguitude.  That  he  burneth  with  a 
flame — for  so  all  fat  burneth;  and  hath  languishings — like 
other  bodies  of  his  tonnage.  That  he  sighs — from  his  size. 

I dispute  not  his  kneeling  at  ladies’  feet — since  it  is  the 
posture  of  elephants ; nor  his  promise  that  the  homage  shall 
remain  eternal.  I doubt  not  of  his  dying — being  of  corpulent 


82 


THE  {SPOILED  CHILD. 


habit,  and  a short  neck.  Of  his  blindness — with  that  inflated 
pig’s  cheek.  But  for  his  lodging  in  Belinda’s  blue  eye,  my 
whole  faith  is  heretic — -for  she  hath  never  a sty  in  it. 


SpikJi  €\ilk 

My  Aunt  Shakerly  was  of  enormous  bulk.  I have  not 
done  justice  to  her  hugeness  in  my  sketch,  for  my  timid 
pencil  declined  to  hazard  a sweep  at  her  real  dimensions. 
There  is  a vastness  in  the  outline,  of  even  moderate  propor- 
tions, till  the  mass  is  rounded  off  by  shadows,  that  makes  the 
hand  hesitate,  and  apt  to  stint  the  figure  of  its  proper  breadth : 
how,  then,  should  1 have  ventured  to  trace,  like  mapping  in  a 
Continent,  the  surpassing  boundaries  of  my  Aunt  Shakerly ! 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD, 


83 


What  a visage  was  hers ! — the  cheeks,  a pair  of  hemi- 
spheres ; her  neck  literally  swallowed  up  by  a supplementary 
chin.  Her  arm,  cased  in  a tight  sleeve,  was  as  the  bolster, — 
her  body,  like  the  feather-bed  of  W are.  The  waist,  which  in 
other  trunks  is  an  isthmus,  was  in  hers  only  the  middle  zone 
of  a continuous  tract  of  flesh : her  ankles  overlapped  her 
shoes. 

With  such  a figure,  it  may  be  supposed  that  her  habits 
were  sedentary.  When  she  did  walk,  the  Tower  Quay,  for 
the  sake  of  the  fresh  river-breeze,  was  her  favourite  resort. 
But  never,  in  all  her  waterside  promenades,  was  she  hailed 
by  the  uplifted  finger  of  the  Waterman.  With  looks  pur- 
posely averted,  he  declined  tacitly  such  a Fairlopian  Fair. 
The  Hackney-coach  driver,  whilst  she  halted  over  against 
him,  mustering  up  all  her  scanty  puffings  for  an  exclamation, 
drove  off  to  the  nether  pavement,  and  pleaded  a prior  call. 
The  chairman,  in  answer  to  her  signals,  had  just  broken  his 
poles.  Thus  her  goings  were  cramped  within  a narrow  circle : 
many  thoroughfares,  besides,  being  strange  to  her  and  inac- 
cessible— such  as  Thames  Street — through  the  narrow  pave- 
ments; others — like  the  Hill  of  Hoi  born — from  their  imprac- 
ticable steepness.  How  she  was  finally  to  master  a more 
serious  ascension,  (the  sensible  incumbrance  of  the  flesh  cling- 
ing to  her  even  in  her  spiritual  aspirations,)  was  a matter  of 
her  serious  despondency, — a picture  of  Jacob’s  Ladder,  by 
Sir  F.  Bourgeois,  confirming  her  that  the  celestial  staircase 
was  without  a landing. 

For  a person  of  her  elephantine  proportions,  my  Aunt  was 
of  a kindly  nature, — for  I confess  a prejudice  against  such 
Giantesses.  She  was  cheerful  and  eminently  charitable  to 
the  poor, — although  she  did  not  condescend  to  a personal 
visitation  of  their  very  limited  abodes.  If  she  had  a fault,  it 
was  in  her  conduct  towards  children — not  spoiling  them  by 

2^* 


84 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD, 


often  repeated  indulgences  and  untimely  severities,  the  com- 
mon practice  of  bad  mothers:  it  was  by  a shorter  course 
that  the  latent  and  hereditary  virtues  of  the  infant  Shakerly 
were  blasted  in  the  bud. 

Oh,  my  tender  cousin  ! (for  thou  wert  yet  unbaptized.) 

Oh ! would  thou  hadst  been — my  little  babe-cousin — of  a 
savager  mother  born  ! For  then,  having  thee  comfortably 
swaddled  upon  a backboard  with  a hole  in  it,  she  would  have 
hung  thee  up  out  of  harm’s  way  above  the  mantel-shelf,  or 
behind  the  kitchen-door ; whereas,  thy  parent  was  no  savage? 
and  so,  having  her  hands  full  of  other  matters,  she  laid  thee 
down,  helpless,  upon  the  parlour  chair  ! 

In  the  mean  time,  the  “ Herald”  came.  Next  to  an  easy 
seat,  my  Aunt  dearly  loved  a police  newspaper  : when  she 
had  once  plunged  into  its  columns,  the  most  vital  question 
obtained  from  her  only  a random  answer — the  world  and  the 
roasting-jack  stood  equally  still.  So,  without  a second 
thought,  she  dropped  herself  on  the  nursing-chair.  One  little 
smothered  cry — my  cousin’s  last  breath — found  its  way  into 
the  upper  air : but  the  still  small  voice  of  the  reporter 
engrossed  the  maternal  ear. 

My  Aunt  never  skimmed  a newspaper,  according  to  some 
people’s  practice.  She  was  as  solid  a reader  as  a sitter,  and 
did  not  get  up,  therefore,  till  she  had  gone  through  the 
“ Herald”  from  end  to  end.  When  she  did  rise,  which  was 
suddenly,  the  earth  quaked — the  windows  rattled — the  ewers 
splashed  over — the  crockery  fell  from  the  shelf — and  the  cat 
and  rats  ran  out  together,  as  they  are  said  to  do  from  a fall- 
ing house. 

“ Heyday  !”  said  my  uncle,  above  stairs,  as  he  staggered 
from  the  concussion ; and,  with  the  usual  curiosity,  he  referred 
to  his  pocket-book  for  the  Royal  Birthday.  But  the  almanac 
not  accounting  for  the  explosion,  he  ran  down  the  stairs  at  the 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD, 


35 


heels  of  the  housemaid,  and  there  lay  my  Aunt,  stretched  on 
the  parlour  floor,  in  a fit.  At  the  very  glimpse,  he  explained 
the  matter  to  his  own  satisfaction  in  three  words : 

“ Ah — the  apoplexy  !” 

Now  the  housemaid  had  done  her  part  to  secure  him 
against  this  error  by  holding  up  the  dead  child ; but  as  she 
turned  the  body  edgeways,^  he  did  not  perceive  it.  When  he 
did  see  it — But  I must  draw  a curtain  over  the  parental 
agony— 

* * 

About  an  hour  after  the  catastrophe,  an  inquisitive  she- 
neighbour  called  in,  and  asked  if  we  should  not  have  the 
Coroner  to  sit  on  the  body : but  my  uncle  replied,  “ There 
was  no  need.”  “ But  in  cases,  Mr.  Shakerly,  where  the 
death  is  not  natural.”  “ My  dear  Madam,”  interrupted  my 
uncle,  “ it  was  a natural  death  enough.” 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD, 


36 


FAITHLESS  SALLY  BEOWK 


THE  BALLAD  OF 

Sallg  Iraton,  anlj  Carpnter." 

I HAVE  never  been  vainer  of  any  verses  than  of  my  part 
in  the  following  Ballad.  Dr  Watts,  amongst  evangelical 
nurses,  has  an  enviable  renown,  and  Campbell’s  Ballads  enjoy 
a snug  genteel  popularity.  ‘‘  Sally  Brown”  has  been  favoured, 
perhaps,  with  as  wide  a patronage  as  the  Moral  Songs,  though 
its  circle  may  not  have  been  of  so  select  a class  as  the  friends 
of  “ Hohenlinden.”  But  I do  not  desire  to  see  it  amongst 
what  are  called  Elegant  Extracts.  The  lamented  Emery, 
drest  as  Tom  Tug,  sang  it  at  his  last  mortal  benefit  at  Co  vent 
Garden ; and,  ever  since,  it  has  been  a great  favourite  with 
the  watermen  of  Thames,  who  time  their  oars  to  it,  as  the 


FAITHLESS  SALLY  BROWN. 


37 


w'lierry-men  of  Venice  time  theirs  to  the  lines  of  Tasso. 
With  the  watermen,  it  went  naturally  to  Vauxhall ; and,  over- 
land, to  Sadler’s  Wells.  The  Guards — not  the  mail  coach, 
but  the  Life  Guards — picked  it  out  from  a fluttering  hundred 
of  others,  all  going  to  one  air,  against  the  dead  wall  at 
Knightsbridge.  Cheap  Printers  of  Shoe  Lane  and  Cow-cross 
(all  pirates  !)  disputed  about  the  copyright,  and  published 
their  own  editions;  and  in  the  mean  time,  the  Authors,  to  have 
made  bread  of  their  song,  (it  was  poor  old  Homer’s  hard 
ancient  case !)  must  have  sung  it  about  the  street.  Such  is 
the  lot  of  Literature ! the  profits  of  “ Sally  Brown”  were 
divided  by  the  Balladmongers : it  has  cost,  but  has  never 
brought  me,  a half-penny. 

FAITHLESS  SALLY  BLOWN. 

#ltr  iBallati. 

W OUNG  Ben  he  was  a nice  young  man, 

A carpenter  by  trade ; 

And  he  fell  in  love  with  Sally  Brown, 

That  was  a lady’s  maid. 

But  as  they  fetch’d  a walk  one  day. 

They  met  a press-gang  crew ; 

And  Sally  she  did  faint  away, 

Whilst  Ben  he  was  brought  to. 

The  Boatswain  swore  with  wicked  words. 

Enough  to  shock  a saint, 

That  though  she  did  seem  in  a fit, 

‘Twas  nothing  but  a feint. 

Come,  girl,”  said  he,  hold  up  your  head. 

He’ll  be  as  good  as  me ; 

For  when  your  swain  is  in  our  boat, 

A boatswain  he  will  be.” 


88 


FAITHLESS  SALLY  HEOWN. 


So  when  they’d  made  their  game  of  her, 
And  taken  off  her  elf, 

She  rous’d,  and  found  she  only  was 
A-coming  to  herself. 

‘‘  And  is  he  gone,  and  is  he  gone  ?” 

She  cried,  and  wept  outright : 

Then  I will  to  the  water  side, 

And  see  him  out  of  sight.” 

A waterman  came  up  to  her. 

Now,  young  woman,”  said  he, 

“ If  you  weep  on  so,  you  will  make 
Eye- water  in  the  sea.” 

“ Alas ! they’ve  taken  my  beau  Ben 
To  sail  with  old  Benbow 
And  her  woe  began  to  run  afresh. 

As  if  she’d  said  Gee  woe ! 

Says  he,  ‘‘  They’ve  only  taken  him 
To  the  Tender  ship,  you  see 
The  Tender  ship,”  cried  Sally  Brown, 
“ What  a hard-ship  that  must  be ! 

0 ! would  I were  a mermaid  now, 

For  then  I’d  follow  him ; 

But  Oh ! — I’m  not  a fish-woman, 

And  so  I cannot  swim. 

“ Alas ! I was  not  born  beneath 
The  virgin  and  the  scales, 

So  I must  curse  my  cruel  stars. 

And  walk  about  in  Wales.” 

Now  Ben  had  sail’d  to  many  a place 
That’s  underneath  the  world ; 

But  in  two  years  the  ship  came  home. 
And  all  her  sails  were  furl’d. 


A COMPLAINT  AGAINST  GREATNESS, 


89 


But  when  he  call’d  on  Sally  Brown, 

To  see  how  she  got  on, 

He  found  she’d  got  another  Ben, 

Whose  Christian  name  was  John. 

“ O Sally  Brown,  O Sally  Brown, 

How  could  you  serve  me  so, 

I’ve  met  with  many  a breeze  before, 
But  never  such  a blow 

Then  reading  on  his  ’bacco  box. 

He  heav’d  a hitter  sigh. 

And  then  began  to  eye  his  pipe. 

And  then  to  pipe  his  eye. 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing  ‘‘All’s  Well,” 
But  could  not  though  he  tried ; 

His  head  was  turn’d,  and  so  he  chew’d 
His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

His  death,  which  happen’d  in  his  birth. 
At  forty-odd  befell : 

They  went  and  told  the  sexton,  and 
The  sexton  toll’d  the  bell. 


^ tajlaint  apiitst 

T AM  an  unfortunate  creature,  the  most  wretched  of  all  that 
groan  under  the  burden  of  the  flesh.  I am  fainting,  as 
they  say  of  kings,  under  my  oppressive  greatness.  A miser- 
able Atlas,  I sink  under  the  world  of — myself. 

But  the  curious  will  here  ask  me  for  my  name.  I am  then, 


40 


A COMPLAINT  AGAINST  G NEATNESS. 


• or  they  say  I am,  “ The  Reverend  Mr.  Farmer,  a four  year’s 
old  Durham  Ox,  fed  by  himself,  upon  oil-cake  and  mangel- 
wurzel  but  I resemble  that  worthy  agricultural  Vicar  only 
in  my  fat  living.  In  plain  truth,  I am  an  unhappy  candidate 
for  the  show  at  Sadler’s,  not  “ the  V^ ells,”  but  the  Repository. 
They  tell  me  I am  to  bear  the  bell,  (as  if  I had  not  enough  to 
bear  already !)  by  my  surpassing  tonnage — and,  doubtless, 
the  prize-emblem  will  be  proportioned  to  my  uneasy  merits. 
With  a great  Tom  of  Lincoln  about  my  neck — alas!  what 
will  it  comfort  me  to  have  been  “commended  by  the 
judges.” 

Wearisome  and  painful  was  my  Pilgrim-like  progress  to 
this  place,  by  short  and  tremulous  steppings,  like  the  digit’s 
march  upon  a dial.  My  owner,  jealous  of  my  fat,  procured  a 
crippled  drover,  with  a withered  limb,  for  my  conductor ; but 
even  he  hurried  me  beyond  my  breath.  The  drawling  hearse 
left  me  labouring  behind;  the  ponderous  fly- wagon  passed  me 
like  a bird  upon  the  road,  so  tediously  slow  is  my  pace.  It 
just  sufficeth.  Oh  ye  thrice  happy  Oysters  1 that  have  no  loco- 
motive faculty  at  all,  to  distinguish  that  I am  not  at  rest. 
Wherever  the  grass  grew  by  the  way-side,  how  it  tempted 
my  natural  longings — the  cool  brook  flowed  at  my  very  foot, 
but  this  short  thick  neck  forbade  me  to  eat  or  drink : nothing 
but  my  redundant  dewlap  is  likely  ever  to  graze  on  the 
ground  1 

If  stalls  and  troughs  were  not  extant,  I must  perish.  Nature 
has  given  to  the  Elephant  a long  flexible  tube,  or  trunk,  so 
that  he  can  feed  his  mouth,  as  it  were,  by  his  nose ; but  is 
man  able  to  furnish  me  with  such  an  implement  ? Or  would 
he  not  still  withhold  it,  lest  I should  prefer  the  green  herb, 
my  natural  delicious  diet,  and  reject  his  rank,  unsavoury  con- 
diments ? What  beast,  with  free  will,  but  wwld  repair  to 
the  sweet  meadow  for  its  pasture ; and  yet  how  grossly  is  he 


A COMPLAINT  AGAINST  GREATNESS. 


41 


labelled  and  libelled  ? Your  bovine  servant — in  the  catalogue 
— is  a “ Durham  Ox,  fed  by  himself  (as  if  he  had  any  elec- 
tion,) upon  oil-cake.” 

I wonder  what  rapacious  Cook,  with  an  eye  to  her  insatia- 
ble grease-pot  and  kitchen  perquisites,  gave  the  hint  of  this 
system  of  stall-feeding ! What  unctuous  Hull  merchant  or 
candle-loving  Muscovite,  made  this  grossness  a desideratum  ? 
If  mine  were,  indeed,  like  the  fat  of  the  tender  sucking  pig, 
that  delicate  gluten  ! there  would  be  reason  for  its  unbounded 
promotion ; but  to  see  the  prize  steak  loaded  with  that  rank 
yellow  abomination,  (the  lamplighters  know  its  relish,)  might 
wean  a man  from  carnivorous  habits  for  ever.  Verily,  it  is 
an  abuse  of  the  Christmas  holly,  the  emblem  of  Old  English 
and  wholesome  cheer,  to  plant  it  upon  such  blubber.  A 
gentlemanly  entrail  must  be  driven  to  extreme  straits,  indeed, 
(Davis’s  Straits,)  to  feel  any  yearnings  for  such  a meal ; and 
yet  I am  told  that  an  assembly  of  gentry,  with  all  the  cele- 
brations of  full  bumpers  and  a blazing  chimney-pot,  have 
honoured  the  broiled  slices  of  a prize  bullock,  a dishful  of 
stringy  fibres,  an  animal  cabbage-net,  and  that  rank  even  hath 
been  satisfied  with  its  rankness. 

Will  the  honourable  club,  whose  aim  it  is  thus  to  make  the 
beastly  nature  more  beastly,  consider  of  this  matter?  Will 
the  humane,  when  they  provide  against  the  torments  of  cats 
and  dogs,  take  no  notice  of  our  condition  ? Nature,  to  the 
whales,  and  creatures  of  their  corpulence,  has  assigned  the 
cool  deeps  ; but  we  have  no  such  refuge  in  our  meltings.  At 
least,  let  the  stall-feeder  confine  his  system  to  the  uncleanly 
swine  which  chews  not  the  cud ; for  let  the  worthy  members 
conceive  on  the  palate  of  imagination,  the  abominable  returns 
of  the  refuse-linseed  in  our  after  ruminations.  Oh ! let  us 
not  suffer  in  vain  ! It  may  seem  presumption  in  a brute  to 
question  the  human  wisdom ; but,  truly,  I can  perceive  no 


42  A COMPLAINT  AGAINST  GE FATNESS. 

beneficial  ends,  worthy  to  be  set  ofT  against  our  sufferings. 
There  must  be,  methinks,  a nearer  way  of  augmenting  the 
perquisites  of  the  kitchen-wench  and  the  fireman, — of  killing 
frogs, — than  by  exciting  them,  at  the  expense  of  us  poor 
blown-up  Oxen,  to  a mortal  inflation. 


“O,  THAT  THIS  TOO  TOO  SOLID  FLESH  WOULD  MELT  I” 


THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE. 


43 


%\t  flemaili  af  Parptt 

Alas  ! what  perils  do  environ 
That  man  who  meddles  with  a siren!” 

Hudibras. 

AN  Margate  beach,  where  the  sick  one  roams, 

^ And  the  sentimental  reads ; 

Where  the  maiden  flirts,  and  the  widow  comes— 
Like  the  ocean — to  cast  her  weeds ; — 

Where  urchins  wander  to  pick  up  shells, 

And  the  Cit  to  spy  at  the  ships, — 

Like  the  water  gala  at  Sadler’s  Wells, — 

And  the  Chandler  for  watery  dips ; — 


44 


THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE, 


There’s  a maiden  sits  by  the  ocean  brim, 

As  lovely  and  fair  as  sin ! 

But  woe,  deep  water  and  woe  to  him, 

That  she  snare th  like  Peter  Fin ! 

Her  head  is  crown’d  with  pretty  sea- wares. 

And  her  locks  are  golden  and  loose : 

And  seek  to  her  feet,  like  other  folks’  heirs. 

To  stand,  of  course,  in  her  shoes ! 

And,  all  day  long,  she  combeth  them  well. 

With  a sea-shark’s  prickly  jaw ; 

And  her  mouth  is  just  like  a rose-lipp’d  shell. 
The  fairest  that  man  e’er  saw ! 

And  the  Fishmonger,  humble  as  love  may  be. 
Hath  planted  his  seat  by  her  side ; 

“ Good  even,  fair  maid ! Is  thy  lover  at  sea. 

To  make  thee  so  watch  the  tide  ?” 

She  turn’d  about  with  her  pearly  brows. 

And  clasp’d  him  by  the  hand ; 

“ Come,  love,  with  me ; I’ve  a bonny  house 
On  the  golden  Goodwin  Sand.” 

And  then  she  gave  him  a sii'en  kiss. 

No  honeycomb  e’er  was  sweeter : 

Poor  wretch ! how  little  he  dreamt  for  this 
That  Peter  should  be  salt-Peter  : 

And  away  with  her  prize  to  the  wave  she  leapt. 
Not  walking,  as  damsels  do. 

With  toe  and  heel,  as  she  ought  to  have  stept. 
But  she  hopt  like  a Kangaroo  j 

One  plunge,  and  then  the  victim  was  blind. 
Whilst  they  galloped  across  the  tide ; 

At  last,  on  the  bank  he  waked  in  his  mind, 

And  the  beauty  was  by  his  side. 


THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE. 


45 


One  half  on  the  sand,  and  half  in  the  sea, 

But  his  hair  all  began  to  stiffen ; 

For  when  he  look’d  where  her  feet  should  be, 
She  had  no  more  feet  than  Miss  Biffen ! 

But  a scaly  tail,  of  a dolphin’s  growth, 

In  the  dabbling  brine  did  soak : 

At  last  she  open’d  her  pearly  mouth. 

Like  an  oyster,  and  thus  she  spoke : 

‘‘  You  crimpt  my  father,  who  was  a skate ; — 
And  my  sister  you  sold — a maid ; 

So  here  remain  for  a fish’ry  fate. 

For  lost  you  are,  and  betray’d !” 

And  away  she  went,  with  a sea-gull’s  scream, 
And  a splash  of  her  saucy  tail ; 

In  a moment  he  lost  the  silvery  gleam 
That  shone  on  her  splendid  mail ! 

The  sun  went  down  with  a blood-red  flame. 
And  the  sky  grew  cloudy  and  black, 

And  the  tumbling  billows  like  leap-frog  came, 
Each  over  the  other’s  back ! 

Ah,  me ! it  had  been  a beautiful  scene, 

With  the  safe  terra-firma  round ; 

But  the  green  water  hillocks  all  seem’d  to  him. 
Like  those  in  a churchyard  ground  j 

And  Christians  love  in  the  turf  to  lie. 

Not  in  watery  graves  to  be ; 

Nay,  the  very  fishes  will  sooner  die 
On  the  land  than  in  the  sea. 

And  whilst  he  stood,  the  watery  strife 
Encroached  on  every  hand. 

And  the  ground  decreas’d — his  moments  of  life 
Seem’d  measm^’d,  like  Time’s,  by  sand ; 


4G 


THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE, 


And  still  the  waters  foam’d  in,  like  ale, 

In  front,  and  on  either  flank. 

He  knew  that  Goodwin  and  Co.  must  fail, 
There  was  such  a run  on  the  bank. 

A little  more,  and  a little  more, 

The  surges  came  tumbling  in ; 

He  sang  the  evening  hymn  twice  o’er, 

And  thought  of  every  sin ! 

Each  flounder  and  plaice  lay  cold  at  his  heart, 
As  cold  as  his  marble  slab ; 

And  he  thought  he  felt  in  every  part, 

The  pincers  of  scalded  crab. 

The  squealing  lobsters  that  he  had  boil’d. 

And  the  little  potted  shrimps. 

All  the  horny  prawns  he  had  ever  spoil’d. 
Gnawed  into  his  soul,  like  imps ! 

And  the  billows  were  wandering  to  and  fro. 
And  thd^glorious  sun  was  sunk. 

And  Day,  getting  black  in  the  face,  as  though 
Of  the  nightshade  she  had  drunk ! 

Had  there  been  but  a smuggler’s  cargo  adrift. 
One  tub,  or  keg,  to  be  seen ; 

It  might  have  given  his  spirits  a lift 
Or  an  anker  where  Hope  might  lean ! 

But  there  was  not  a box  or  a beam  afloat. 

To  raft  him  from  that  sad  place  ,* 

Not  a skiJff,  nor  a yawl,  or  a mackerel  boat. 
Nor  a smack  upon  Neptune’s  face. 

At  last,  his  lingering  hopes  to  buoy. 

He  saw  a sail  and  a mast, 

And  called  ‘‘  Ahoy !” — but  it  was  not  a hoy, 
And  so  the  vessel  went  past. 


A FAIRY  TALE. 


47 


And  with  saucy  wing  that  flapp’d  in  his  face, 
The  wild  bird  about  him  flew, 

With  a shrilly  scream,  that  twitted  his  case, 

“ Why,  thou  art  a sea-gull  too !” 

And  lo ! the  tide  was  over  his  feet ; 

O ! his  heart  began  to  freeze, 

And  slowly  to  pulse  : — in  another  heat 
The  wave  was  up  to  his  knees ! 

He  was  deafen’d  amidst  the  mountain  tops, 
And  the  salt  spray  blinded  his  eyes, 

And  wash’d  away  the  other  salt  drops 
That  grief  had  caused  to  arise : — 

But  just  as  his  body  was  all  afloat. 

And  the  surges  above  him  broke, 

He  was  saved  from  the  hungry  deep  by  a boat. 
Of  Deal — (but  builded  of  oak). 

The  skipper  gave  him  a dram,  as  he  lay. 

And  chafed  his  shivering  skin  j 
And  the  Angel  return’d  that  was  flying  away 
With  the  spirit  of  Peter  Fin  ! 


imu  fait. 

AN  Hounslow  Heath — and  close  beside  the  road, 

^ As  western  travellers  may  oft  have  seen — 

A little  house  some  years  ago  there  stood, 

A minikin  abode ; 

And  built  like  Mr.  Birkbeck’s,  all  of  wood : 

The  walls  of  white,  the  window  shutters  green ; — ■ 
Four  wheels  it  had  at  North,  South,  East,  and  West, 
(Tho’  now  at  rest,) 


48 


A FAIRY  TALE, 


On  which  it  used  to  wander  to  and  fro, 

Because  its  master  ne’er  maintain’d  a rider, 

Like  those  who  trade  in  Paternoster  Row; 

But  made  his  business  travel  for  itself. 

Till  he  had  made  his  pelf. 

And  then  retired — if  one  may  call  it  so, 

Of  a roadsider. 

Perchance,  the  very  race  and  constant  riot 
Of  stages,  long  and  short,  which  thereby  ran, 

Made  him  more  relish  the  repose  and  quiet 
Of  his  now  sedentary  caravan  ; 

Perchance,  he  lov’d  the  ground  because  ’twas  common, 
And  so  he  might  impale  a strip  of  soil, 

That  furnish’d,  by  his  toil. 

Some  dusty  greens,  for  him  and  his  old  woman  ; — 

And  five  tall  hollyhocks,  in  dingy  flower, 

Howbeit,  the  thoroughfare  did  no  ways  spoil 
His  peace,  unless,  in  some  unlucky  hour, 

A stray  horse  came  and  gobbled  up  his  bow’r. 

But  tir’d  of  always  looking  at  the  coaches. 

The  same  to  come, — ^^vhen  they  had  seen  them  one  day ! 

And,  used  to  brisker  life,  both  man  and  wife 
Began  to  suffer  N U E’s  approaches. 

And  feel  retirement  like  a long  wet  Sunday, — 

So,  having  had  some  quarters  of  school  breeding. 

They  turn’d  themselves,  like  other  folks,  to  reading  ; 

But  setting  out  where  others  nigh  have  done, 

And  being  ripen’d  in  the  seventh  stage, 

The  childhood  of  old  age. 

Began,  as  other  children  have  begun, — 

Not  with  the  pastorals  of  Mr.  Pope, 

Or  Bard  of  Hope, 

Or  Paley  ethical,  or  learned  Person, — 

But  spelt,  on  Sabbaths,  in  St.  Mark,  or  J ohn, 

And  then  relaxed  themselves  with  Whittington, 


A FAIRY  TALE, 


49 


Or  Valentine  and  Orson — 

But  chiefly  fairy  tales  they  loved  to  con, 

And  being  easily  melted  in  their  dotage, 

Slobber’d, — and  kept 
Beading, — and  wept 

Over  the  White  Cat,  in  their  wooden  cottage. 

Thus  reading  on — the  longer 

They  read,  of  course,  their  childish  faith  grew  stronger 
In  Gnomes,  and  Hags,  and  Elves,  aiid  Giants  grim, — 
If  talking  Trees  and  Birds  reveal’d  to  him, 

She  saw  the  flight  of  Fairyland’s  fly- wagons, 

And  magic  fishes  swim 

In  puddle  ponds,  and  took  old  crows  for  di’agons, — 
Both  were  quite  drunk  from  the  enchanted  flagons ; 
When  as  it  fell  upon  a summer’s  day, 

As  the  old  man  sat  a-feeding 
On  the  old  babe-reading, 

Beside  his  open  street-and-parlour  door, 

A hideous  roar 

Proclaim’d  a drove  of  beasts  was  coming  by  the  way. 

Long-horned,  and  short,  of  many  a different  breed, 

Tall,  tawny  brutes,  from  famous  Lincoln-levels 
Or  Durham  feed ; 

With  some  of  those  unquiet  black  dwarf  devils 
From  nether  side  of  Tweed, 

Or  Firth  of  Forth ; 

Looking  half  wild  with  joy  to  leave  the  North, 

With  dusty  hides,  all  mobbing  on  together, — 

When, — whether  from  a fly’s  malicious  comment 
Upon  his  tender  flank,  from  which  he  shrank ; 

Or  whether 

Only  in  some  enthusiastic  moment, — 

However,  one  brown  monster,  in  a frisk, 

Giving  his  tail  a perpendicular  whisk, 

Kick’d  out  a passage  thro’  the  beastly  rajbble ; 

8 


50 


A FAIRY  TALE. 


And  after  a pas  seul, — or,  if  you  will,  a 
Horn-pipe  before  the  Basket-maker’s  villa, 

Leapt  o’er  the  tiny  pale, — 

Back’d  his  beef-steaks  against  the  wooden  gable. 

And  thrust  his  brawny  bell-rope  of  a tail 
Bight  o’er  the  page, 

Wherein  the  sage 

Just  then  was  spelling  some  romantic  fable. 

The  old  man,  half  a scholar,  half  a dunce. 

Could  not  peruke — who  could  ? — ^two  tales  at  once  j 
And  being  huff’d 

At  what  he  knew  was  none  of  Biquet’s  Tuft, 
Bang’d-to  the  door, 

But  most  unluckily  enclosed  a morsel 
Of  the  intruding  tail,  and  all  the  tassel : — 

The  monster  gave  a roar, 

And  bolting  off  with  speed  increased  by  pain. 

The  little  house  became  a coach  once  more. 

And,  like  Macheath,  “ took  to  the  road”  again  I 

* Just  then,  by  fortune’s  whimsical  decree. 

The  ancient  woman  stooping  with  her  crupper 
Towai’ds  sweet  home,  or  where  sweet  home  should  be. 
Was  getting  up  some  household  herbs  for  supper  \ 
Thoughtful  of  Cinderella,  in  the  tale. 

And  quaintly  wandering  if  magic  shifts 
Could  o’er  a common  pumpkin  so  prevail. 

To  turn  it  to  a coach, — what  pretty  gifts 
Might  come  of  cabbages,  and  curly  kale ; 

Meanwhile  she  never  heard  her  old  man’s  wail. 

Nor  turn’d,  till  home  had  turn’d  a corner,  quite 
Gone  out  of  sight ! 

At  last,  conceive  her,  rising  from  the  ground. 

Weary  of  sitting  on  her  russet  clothing, 

And  looking  rojind 
Where  rest  was  to  he  found, 


FANCIES  ON  A TEA- CUE. 


51 


There  was  no  house — no  villa  there — no  nothing ! 
No  house ! 

The  change  was  quite  amazing ; 

It  made  her  senses  stagger  for  a minute, 

The  riddle’s  explication  seem’d  to  harden ; 

But  soon  her  superannuated  nous 
Explained  the  horrid  mystery ; — and  raising 
Her  hand  to  heaven,  with  the  cabbage  in  it. 

On  which  she  meant  to  sup, — 

Well  I this  is  Fairy  Work  ! I’ll  bet  a farden, 
Little  Prince  Silverwings  has  ketch’d  me  up. 

And  set  me  down  in  some  one  else’s  garden !” 


I'andd  m a 


I LOVE  to  pore  upon  old  china — and  to  speculate,  from  the 
images,  on  Cathay,  I can  fancy  that  the  Chinese  manners 
betray  themselves,  like  the  drunkard’s,  in  their  cups. 

How  quaintly  pranked  and  patterned  is  their  vessel! — 
exquisitely  outlandish,  yet  not  barbarian.  How  daintily 
sparent ! It  should  be  no  vulgar  earth  that  produces  that 
rlative  ware,  nor  does  it  so  seem  in  the  enamelled  land- 


There  are  beautiful  birds  ; there,  rich  flowers  and  gorgeous 
butterflies,  and  a delicate  clime,  if  we  may  credit  the  porce- 
lain. There  be  also  horrible  monsters,  dragons,  with  us 
obsolete,  and  reckoned  fabulous ; the  main  breed,  doubtless, 
having  followed  Fohi  (our  Noah)  in  his  wanderings  thither 
from  the  Mount  Ararat.  But  how  does  that  impeach  the 
loveliness  of  Cathay?  There  are  such  creatures  even  in 
Fairy-land. 


52 


FANCIES  ON  A TEA- GUP. 


I long  often  to  loiter  in  those  romantic  Paradises — studded 
with  pretty  temples — holiday  pleasure-grounds — the  true 
Tea-Gardens.  I like  those  meandering  waters,  and  the 
abounding  little  islands. 

And  here  is  a Chinese  nurse-maid,  Ho-Fi,  chiding  a fretful 
little  Pekin  child.  The  urchin  hath  just  such  another  toy,  at 
the  end  of  a string,  as  might  be  purchased  at  our  own  Mr. 
Dunnett’s.  It  argues  an  advanced  state  of  civilization  where 
the  children  have  many  playthings ; and  the  Chinese  infants, 
— witness  their  flying  fishes  and  whirligigs,  sold  by  the  stray 
natives  about  our  streets — are  far  gone  in  such  juvenile 
luxuries. 

But  here  is  a better  token.  The  Chinese  are  a polite 
people;  for  they  do  not  make  household,  much  less  hus- 
bandry, drudges  of  their  wives.  You  may  read  the  women’s 
fortune  in  their  tea-cups.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  the  female 
is  busy  only  in  the  lady-like  toils  of  the  toilette.  Lo ! here, 
how  sedulously  the  blooming  Hy-son  is  pencilling  the  mortal 
arches  and  curving  the  cross-bows  of  her  eyebrows.  A 
musical  instrument,  her  secondary  engagement,  is  at  her 
almost  invisible  feet.  Are  such  little  extremities  likely  to 
be  tasked  with  laborious  offices  ? Marry,  in  kicking,  they 
must  be’  ludicrously  impotent, — ^but  then  she  hath  a formH 
dable  growth  of  nails. 

By  her  side,  the  obsequious  Hum  is  pouring  his  soft  fla^B? 
ies  into  her  ear.  When  she  walketh  abroad,  (here  it  is  on 
another  sample,)  he  shadeth  her  at  two  miles  off  with  his 
umbrella.  It  is  like  an  allegory  of  Love  triumphing  over 
space.  The  lady  is  walking  upon  one  of  those  frequent  petty 
islets,  on  a plain,  as  if  of  porcelain,  without  any  herbage ; only 
a solitary  flower  springs  up,  seemingly  by  enchantment,  at 
her  fairy-like  foot.  The  watery  space  between  the  lovers  is 


FANCIES  ON  A TEA- GUP, 


53 


aptly  left  as  a blank,  excepting  her  adorable  shadow,  which 
is  tending  towards  her  slave. 

How  reverentially  is  yon  urchin  presenting  his  flowers  to 
the  Gray-Beard ! So  honourably  is  age  considered  in  China ! 
There  would  be  some  sense,  ihere^  in  birthday  celebrations. 

Here,  in  another  compartment,  is  a solitary  scholar,  appar- 
ently studying  the  elaborate  didactics  of  Con-Fuse- Ye. 

The  Chinese  have,  verily,  the  advantage  of  us  upon  earthen- 
ware ! They  trace  themselves  as  lovers,  contemplatists, 
philosophers : whereas,  to  judge  from  our  jugs  and  mugs,  we 
are  nothing  but  sheepish  piping  shepherds  and  fox-hunters. 


\ 


PEBE  LA  CHAISE. 


54 


EQUESTRIAN  COURTSHIP. 


€\nn\xm 

I. 

TT  was  a young  maiden  went  forth  to  ride, 

And  there  was  a wooer  to  pace  by  her  side ; 

His  horse  was  so  little,  and  hers  so  high. 

He  thought  his  Angel  was  up  in  the  sky. 

II. 

His  love  was  great,  tho’  his  wit  was  small ; 

He  bade  her  ride  easy — and  that  was  all ; 

The  very  horses  began  to  neigh, — 

Because  their  betters  had  naught  to  say. 

III. 

They  rode  by  elm,  and  they  rode  by  oak. 

They  rode  by  a churchyard,  and  then  he  spoke : — 

My  pretty  maiden,  if  you’ll  agree. 

You  shall  always  amble  through  life  with  me.” 

IV. 

The  damsel  answer’d  him  never  a word. 

But  kick’d  the  gray  mare,  and  away  she  spurr’d. 

The  wooer  still  follow’d  behind  the  jade. 

And  enjoy’d — like  a wooer — the  dust  she  made. 

V. 

They  rode  thro’  moss,  and  they  rode  thro’  moor,— 

The  gallant  behind  and  the  lass  before  : — 

At  last  they  came  to  a miry  place. 

And  there  the  sad  wooer  gave  up  the  chase. 

VI. 

Quoth  he,  If  my  nag  was  better  to  ride, 

I’d  follow  her  over  the  world  so  wide. 

Oh,  it  is  not  my  love  that  begins  to  fail. 

But  I’ve  lost  the  last  glimpse  of  the  gray  mare’s  tail !” 


«<SJO’  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND: 


55 


n for  ta  ITan^/’ 

IT  has  been  my  fortune,  or  misfortune,  sometimes  to  witness 
the  distresses  of  females  upon  shipboard  ; — that  is,  in  such 
fresh- victual  passages  as  to  Ramsgate — or  to  Leith.  How 
they  can  contemplate  or  execute  those  longer  voyages,  beyond 

f^d  Hope’s  Cape — even  with  the  implied  inducements  of 
atrimony — is  one  of  my  standard  wonders.  There  is  a 
^Ml^al  shrinking,  a cat-like  antipathy  to  water,  in  the  lady 
constitution,  (as  the  false  Argonaut  well  remembered  when  he 
shook  off  Ariadne,)  that  seems  to  forbid  such  sea  adventures. 
Betwixt  a younger  daughter  in  Hampshire,  for  example,  and  a 
Judge’s  son  of  Calcutta,  there  is,  apparently,  a great  gulf  fixed. 

How  have  I felt  and  shuddered,  for  a timid,  shrinking, 
anxious  female,  full  of  tremblings  as  an  aspen,  about  to  set 
her  first  foot  upon  the  stage : but  it  can  be  nothing  to  a 
maiden’s  debut  on  the  deck  of  an  East  Indiaman. 

Handkerchiefs  waving — not  in  welcome,  but  in  farewell ; 
crowded  boxes — not  filled  with  living  Beauty  and  Fashion, 


56 


SHE  IS  FAB  FROM  THE  LAND: 


but  departing  luggage.  Not  the  mere  noisy  Gods  of  the 
gallery  to  encounter — but  those  more  boisterous,  of  the  wind 
and  wave.  And  then,  all  before  her,  the  great  salt-water  Pit! 

As  I write  this,  the  figure  of  Miss  Oliver  rises  up  before 
me,  just  as  she  looked  on  her  first  introduction,  by  the  Nep- 
tune, to  the  Ocean.  It  was  her  first  voyage — and  she  made 
sure  would  be  her  last.  Her  storms  commenced  at  Graves- 
end— her  sea  began  much  higher  up.  She  had  qualms  at 
Blackwall.  At  the  Nore,  she  came  to  the  mountain-billows 
o^  her  imagination ; for  however  the  ocean  may  disappoint 
the  expectation  from  the  land,  on  shipboard,  to  the  unini- 
tiated, it  hath  all  its  terrors.  The  sailor’s  capful  of  wind  was 
to  her  a Northwester.  Every  splash  of  a wave  shocked  her, 
as  if  each  brought  its  torpedo.  The  loose  cordage  did  not 
tremble  and  thrill  more  to  the  wind  than  her  nerves.  At 
every  tack  of  the  vessel,  on  all-fours — for  she  would  not  trust 
to  her  own  feet  and  the  outstretched  hand  of  courtesy — she 
scrambled  up  to  the  higher  side.  Her  back  ached  with 
straining  against  the  bulwark,  to  preserve  her  own  and  the 
ship’s  perpendicular : her  eyes  glanced  right,  left,  above,  be- 
neath, before,  behind,  with  all  the  alacrity  of  alarm.  She  had 
not  organs  enough  of  sight,  or  hearing,  to  keep  watch  against  _ 
all  her  imagined  perils;  her  ignorance  of  nautical  matt^J^] 
in  the  mean  time,  causing  her  to  mistake  the  real  sea-dangers  F" 
for  subjects  of  self-congratulation.  It  delighted  her  to  uik!^- 
stand  that  there  were  barely  three  fathoms  of  water  between 
the  vessel  and  the  ground, — her  notion  had  been  that  the 
whole  sea  was  bottomless.  When  the  ship  struck  upon  a 
sand,  and  was  left  there  high  and  dry  by  the  tide,  her  pleas- 
ure was,  of  course,  complete.  “We  could  walk  about,”  she 
said,  “and  pick  up  shells.”  I believe  she  would  have  been  as 
well  contented  if  our  Neptune  had  been  pedestaled  upon  a 
rock — deep  water  and  sea-room  were  the  only  subjects  of  her 
dread.  When  the  vessel,  therefore,  got  afloat  again,  the  old 


IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LANDF 


57 


terrors  of  the  landswoman  returned  upon  her  with  the  former 
force.  All  possible  marine  difficulties  and  disasters  were  hud- 
dled, like  an  auction  medley,  in  one  lot,  into  her  apprehension : 

Cables  entangling  her, 

Shipspars  for  mangling  her, 

Ropes,  sure  of  strangling  her ; 

Blocks  over-daCgling  her ; 

Tiller  to  batter  her. 

Topmast  to  shatter  her. 

Tobacco  to  spatter  her ; 

Boreas  blustering, 

Boatswain  quite  flustering. 

Thunder-clouds  mustering 
To  blast  her  with  sulphur— 

If  the  deep  don’t  engulph  her ; 

Sometimes  fear’s  scrutiny 
Pries  out  a'  mutiny. 

Sniffs  conflagration. 

Or  hints  at  starvation : — 

All  the  sea  dangers. 

Buccaneers,  rangers. 

Pirates,  and  Sallee-men, 

Algerine  galleymen. 

Tornadoes  and  typhons. 

And  horrible  syphons. 

And  submarine  travels 
Thro’  roaring  sea-navels ; 

Every  thing  wrong  enough. 

Long-boat  not  long  enough, 

Vessel  not  strong  enough ; 

Pitch  marring  frippery. 

The  deck  very  slippery. 

And  the  cabin — ^built  sloping. 

The  Captain  a-toping. 

And  the  Mate  a blasphemer. 

That  names  his  Redeemer — • 

3^* 


SEE  IS  FAB  FROM  THE  LAND^^ 

With  inward  uneasiness ; 

The  cook,  known  by  greasiness, 
The  victuals  beslubber’d, 

Her  bed — ^in  a cupboard ; 

Things  of  strange  christening, 
Snatch’d  in  her  listening. 

Blue  lights  and  red  lights. 

And  mention  of  dead  lights, 

And  shrouds  made  a theme  of, 
Things  horrid  to  dream  of, — 
And  huoys  in  the  water 
To  fear  all  exhort  her  j 
Her  friend  no  Leander ; 

Herself  no*  sea  gander. 

And  ne’er  a cork  jacket 
On  board  of  the  packet  j 
The  breeze  still  a-stiffening, 

The  trumpet  quite  deafening  j 
Thoughts  of  repentance. 

And  doomsday  and  sentence  5 
Every  thing  sinister. 

Not  a church  minister, — 

Pilot  a blunderer. 

Coral  reefs  under  herj 
Beady  to  sunder  her  ; 

Trunks  tipsy-topsy, 

The  ship  in  a dropsy  ; 

Waves  over  surging  her. 

Sirens  a dirgeing  her, 

Sharks  all  expecting  her, 
Sword-fish  dissecting  her, 

Crabs  with  their  hand- vices 
Punishing  land  vices  J 
Sea-dogs  and  unicorns. 

Things  with  no  puny  horns. 
Mermen  carnivorous — 

“ Good  Lord  deliver  us !” 


^^SIIE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LANDF 


59 


The  rest  of  the  voyage  was  occupied — excepting  one  bright 
interval — with  the  sea  malady  and  sea  horrors.  We  were 
off  Flamborough  Head.  A heavy  swell,  the  consequence  of 
some  recent  storm  to  the  eastward,  was  rolling  right  before 
the  wind  upon  the  land ; and,  once  under  the  shadow  of  the 
bluff  promontory,  we  should  lose  all  the  advantage  of  a sa- 
ving westerly  breeze.  Even  the  seamen  looked  anxious  : but 
the  passengers  (save  one)  were  in  despair.  They  were, 
already,  bones  of  contention,  in  their  own  misgivings,  to  the 
myriads  of  cormorants  and  water-fowl  inhabiting  that  stupen- 
dous cliff.  Miss  Oliver  alone  was  sanguine : she  was  all 
nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles  : her  cheeriness  in- 
creased in  proportion  with  our  dreariness.  Even  the  dismal 
pitching  of  the  vessel  could  not  disturb  her  unseasonable 
levity — it  was  like  a lightening  before  death ; — but,  at  length, 
the  mystery  was  explained.  She  had  springs  of  comfort  we 
knew  not  of.  Not  brandy — for  that  we  shared  in  common ; 

nor  supplications — for  these  we  had  all  applied  to ; but  her 
ears,  being  jealously  vigilant  of  whatever  passed  between  the 
mariners,  she  had  overheard  from  the  captain — and  it  had  all 
the  sound  to  her  of  a comfortable  promise — that,  “ if  the 
^ wind  held,  we  should  certainly  go  on  shored'* 


•‘OOME  o’er  the  sea.’ 


60 


TEE  STAG-ETED  LADY. 


f aljs. 


A MOORISH  TALE. 


Scheherazade  immediately  began  the  following  story. 
LI  BEN  ALI  (did  you  never  read 


His  wondrous  acts  that  chronicles  relate, — 

How  there  was  one  in  pity  mig-ht  exceed 
The  sack  of  Troy  ?)  Magnificent  he  sate 
Upon  the  throne  of  greatness — great  indeed, 

For  those  that  he  had  under  him  were  great — 

The  horse  he  rode  on,  shod  with  silver  nails. 

Was  a Bashaw — Bashaws  have  horses’  tails. 

Ali  was  cruel — a most  cruel  one ! 

’Tis  rumour’d  he  had  strangled  his  own  mother — • 
Howheit  such  deeds  of  darkness  he  had  done, 

’Tis  thought  he  would  have  slain  his  elder  brother 
And  sister  too — ^but  happily  that  none 

Did  live  within  harms  length  of  one  another. 

Else  he  had  sent  the  Sun  in  all  its  blaze 
To  endless  night,  and  shortened  the  Moon’s  days. 

Despotic  power,  th»t  mars  a weak  man’s  wit. 

And  makes  a bad  man — absolutely  bad. 

Made  Ali  wicked — ^to  a fault : — ’tis  fit 

Monarchs  should  have  some  check-strings ; but  he  had 
No  curb  upon  his  will — no,  not  a hit — 

Wherefore  he  did  not  reign  well — and  full  glad 
His  slaves  had  been  to  hang  him — ^but  they  falter’d. 

And  let  him  live  unhang’d — and  still  unalter’d. 


ms  STAG-EYED  LADY. 


Until  lie  got  a sage  bush  of  a beard, 

Wherein  an  Attic  owl  might  roost — a trail 
Of  bristly  hair — that,  honour’d  and  unshear’d, 
Grew  downward  like  old  women  and  cow’s  tail : 
Being  a sign  of  age — some  gray  appear’d. 

Mingling  with  duskier  brown  its  warnings  pale ; 
But  yet  not  so  poetic  as  when  Time 
Comes  like  Jack  Frost,  and  whitens  it  in  rime. 


Ben  Ali  took  the  hint,  and  much  did  vex 
His  royal  bosom  that  he  had  no  son. 

No  living  child  of  the  more  noble  sex. 

To  stand  in  his  Morocco  shoes — not  one 
To  make  a negro-pollard — or  tread  necks 

When  he  was  gone — doom’d,  when  his  days  were  done, 
To  leave  the  very  city  of  his  fame 
Without  an  Ali  to  keep  up  his  name. 


Therefore  he  chose  a lady  for  his  love. 

Singling  from  out  the  herd  one  stag-eyed  dear ; 

So  called,  because  her  lustrous  eyes,  above 
All  eyes,  were  dark,  and  timorous,  and  clear ; 

Then,  through  his  Muftis  piously  he  strove. 

And  drummed  with  proxy-prayers  Mohammed’s  ear, 
Knowing  a boy  for  certain  must  come  of  it. 

Or  else  he  was  not  praying  to  his  Profit. 


Beer  will  grow  mothery,  and  ladies  fspir 

Will  grow  like  beer ; so  did  that  stag-eyed  dame : 
Ben  Ali,  hoping  for  a son  and  heir, 

Boyed  up  his  hopes,  and  even  chose  a name 
Of  mighty  hero  that  his  child  should  bear ; 

He  made  so  certain  ere  his  chicken  came : 

But  oh  ! all  worldly  wit  is  little  worth. 

Nor  knoweth  what  to-morrow  will  bripg  forth. 


62 


Tm  STAG-EYED  LADY, 


To-morrow  came,  and  with  to-morrow’s  sun 
A little  daughter  to  this  world  of  sins, 
Afjss-fortunes  never  come  alone — so  one 
Brought  on  another,  like  a pair  of  twins  : 

Twins ! female  twins ! — ^it  was  enough  to  stun 
Their  little  wits  and  scare  them  from  their  skins. 
To  hear  their  father  stamp,  and  curse  and  swear. 
Pulling  his  heard  because  he  had  no  heir. 


Then  strove  their  stag-eyed  mother  to  calm  down 
This  his  paternal  rage,  and  thus  addrest : 

Oh ! Most  Serene  ! why  dost  thou  stamp  and  frown, 
And  box  the  compass  of  the  royal  chest  ? 

Ah ! thou  wilt  mar  that  portly  trunk,  I own 
I love  to  gaze  on  ! — Pr’ythee,  thou  hadst  best 
Pocket  thy  fists.  Nay,  love,  if  you  so  thin 
Your  beard,  you’ll  want  a wig  upon  your  chin ! 

But  not  her  words,  or  e’en  her  tears,  could  slack 
The  quicklime  of  his  rage,  that  hotter  grew : 

He  called  his  slaves  to  bring  an  ample  sack 
Wherein  a woman  might  he  poked — a few 
Dark  grimly  men  felt  pity  and  look’d  black 
At  this  sad  order ; hut  their  slaveships  knew 
WTien  any  dared  demur,  his  sword  so  bending 
Cut  off  the  head  and  front  of  their  offending.” 


'# 

For  Ali  had  a sword,  much  like  himself, 

A crooked  blade,  guilty  of  human  gore — 

The  trophies  it  had  lopp’d  from  many  an  elf 
Were  stuck  at  his  Aeac^-quarters  by  the  score — 
Nor  yet  in  peace  he  laid  it  on  the  shelf. 

But  jested  with  it,  and  his  wit  cut  sore ; 

So  that  (as  they  of  Public  Houses  speak) 

He  often  did  his  dozen  hutts  a week. 


THE  STAG- EYED  LADY. 


63 


Therefore  his  slaves,  with  most  obedient  fears, 

Came  with  the  sack  the  lady  to  enclose ; 

In  vain  from  her  stag-eyes  “ the  big  round  tears 
Coursed  one  another  down  her  innocent  nose 
In  vain  her  tongue  wept  sorrow  in  their  ears ; 

Though  there  were  some  felt  willing  to  oppose, 

Yet  when  their  heads  came  in  their  heads,  that  minute. 
Though  Twas  a piteous  case,  they  put  her  in  it. 

And  when  the  sack  was  tied,  some  two  or  three 
Of  these  black  undertakers  slowly  brought  her 
To  a kind  of  Moorish  Serpentine  j for  she 

Was  doom’d  to  have  a winding  sheet  of  water » 

Then  farewell,  earth — farewell  to  the  green  tree — 
Farewell,  the  sun — the  moon — each  little  daughter ! 
She’s  shot  from  off  the  shoulders  of  a black. 

Like  a bag  of  Wall’s-End  from  a coalman’s  back. 


The  waters  oped,  and  the  wide  sack  full- fill’d 
All  that  the  waters  oped,  as  down  it  fell ; 

Then  closed  the  wave,  and  then  the  surface  rill’d 
A ring  above  her,  like  a water-knell ; 

A moment  more,  and  all  its  face  was  still’d, 

And  not  a guilty  heave  was  left  to  tell 
That  underneath  its  calm  and  blue  transparence 
A dame  lay  drowned  in  her  sack,  like  Clarence. 

But  Heaven  beheld,  and  awful  witness  bore. 

The  moon  in  black  ecHpse  deceased  that  night, 
Like  Desdemona  smother’d  by  the  Moor 
The  lady’s  natal  star  with  pale  afiright 
Fainted  and  fell — and  what  were  stars  before. 
Turn’d  comets  as  the  tale  was  brought  to  light ; 
And  all  look  d downward  on  the  fatal  wave. 

And  made  their  own  reflections  on  her  grave. 


64 


TEE  STAG-EYED  LADY, 


Next  night,  a head — a little  lady  head, 

Push’d  through  the  waters  a most  glassy  face, 
With  weedy  tresses,  thrown  apart  and  spread. 
Comb’d  by  ’live  ivory,  to  show  the  space 
Of  a pale  forehead,  and  two  eyes  that  shed 
A soft  blue  mist,  breathing  a bloomy  grace 
Over  their  sleepy  lids — and  so  she  rais’d 
Her  aq^UL]m.e  nose  above  the  stream,  and  gazed. 

She  oped  her  lips — lips  of  a gentle  blush. 

So  pale  it  seem’d  near  drowned  to  a white, — 

She  oped  her  lips,  and  forth  there  sprang  a gush 
Of  music  bubbling  through  the  surface  light ; 

The  leaves  are  motionless,  the  breezes  hush 
To  listen  to  the  air — and  through  the  night 
There  come  these  words  of  a most  plaintive  ditty, 
Sobbing  as  they  would  break  aU  hearts  with  pity : 


THE  WATER  PERl’s  SONG. 

Farewell,  farewell,  to  my  mother’s  own  daughter, 

The  child  that  she  wet-nursed  is  lapp’d  in  the  wave 
The  Mussulmdcn.  coming  to  fish  in  this  water. 

Adds  a tear  to  the  flood  that  weeps  over  her  grave. 

This  sack  is  her  coffin,  this  water’s  her  bier, 

This  grayish  hath  cloak  is  her  funeral  pall. 

And,  stranger,  O stranger ! this  song  that  you  hear 
Is  her  epitaph,  elegy,  dirges,  and  all ! 

Farewell,  farewell,  to  the  child  of  A1  Hassan, 

My  mother’s  own  daughter — the  last  of  her  race— 
She’s  a corpse,  the  poor  body ! and  Hes  in  this  basin. 
And  sleeps  in  the  water  that  washes  her  face. 


A NEW-RIVER  ECLOGUE. 

My  old  New  River  hath  presented  no  extraordinary  novelties  lately. 
But  there  Hope  sits,  day  after  day,  speculating  on  traditionary  gudgeons. 
I think  she  hath  taken  the  Fisheries.  I now  know  the  reasons  why  our 
forefathers  were  denominated  East  and  West  Angles.  Yet  is  there  no 
lack  of  spawn,  for  I wash  my  hands  in  fishets  that  come  through  the  pump, 
every  morning,  thick  as  motelings — little  things  that  perish  untimely,  and 
never  taste  the  brook.’^ — From  a Letter  of  G,  Lamb, 


[Piscator  is  fishing,  near  the  Sir  Hugh  Middleton’s  Head,  without  either  basket 
or  can.  Viator  cometh  up  to  him,  with  an  angling-rod  and  a bottle.] 

Via.  Good  morrow,  Master  Piscator.  Is  there  any  sport 
afloat  • 

Pis.  I have  not  been  here  time  enough  to  answer  for  it.  It 
is  barely  two  hours  agone  smce  I put  in. 


66 


WALTON  BEDIVIVUS. 


Via,  The  fishes  are  shyer  in  this  stream  than  in  any  water 
that  I know. 

Pis.  I have  fished  here  a whole  Whitsuntide  through  with- 
out a nibble.  But  then  the  weather  was  not  so  excellent  as  to- 
day. This  nice  shower  will  set  the  gudgeons  all  agape. 

Via,  I am  impatient  to  begin. 

Pis,  Do  you  fish  with  gut? 

Via.  No — I bait  with  gentles. 

Pis.  It  is  a good  taking  bait : though  my  question  referred 
to  the  nature  of  your  line.  Let  me  see  your  tackle.  Why, 
this  is  no  line,  but  a ship’s  cable.  It  is  a six- twist.  There  is 
nothing  in  this  water  but  you  may  pull  out  with  a single  hair. 

Via.  What ! are  there  no  dace,  nor  perch  ? — 

Pis.  I doubt  not  but  there  have  been  such  fish  in  former 
ages.  But  now-ar-days  there  is  nothing  of  that  size.  They  are 
gone  extinct  like  the  mammoths. 

Via.  There  was  always  such  a fishing  at  ’em.  Where  there 
was  one  Angler  in  former  times,  there  is  now  a hundred. 

Pis.  A murrain  on  ’em ! — A New-Eiver  fish,  now-a-days, 
cannot  take  his  common  swimming  exercise  without  hitching 
on  a hook. 

Via.  It  is  the  natural  course  of  things,  for  man’s  populous- 
ness  to  terminate  other  breeds.  As  the  proverb  says,  “ The 
more  Scotchmen  the  fewer  herrings.”  It  is  curious  to  con- 
sider the  family  of  whales  growing  thinner  according  to  the 
propagation  of  parish  lamps. 

Pis.  Aye,  and  withal,  how  the  race  of  man,  who  is  a terres- 
trial animal,  should  have  been  in  the  greatest  jeopardy  of  ex- 
tinction by  the  element  of  water  ; whereas  the  whales,  living 
in  the  ocean,  are  most  liable  to  be  burnt  out. 

Vi^  It  is  a pleasant  speculation.  But  how  is  this? — I 
thought  to  have  brought  my  gentles  comfortably  in  an  Old 
snulf-box,  and  they  are  all  stark  dead ! 


WALTON  NEDIVJVUS. 


67 


Pis,  The  odour  hath  killed  them.  There  is  nothing  more 
mortal  than  tobacco,  to  all  kinds  of  vermin.  Wherefore,  a 
new  box  will  be  indispensable,  though  for  my  own  practice  I 
prefer  my  waistcoat  pockets  for  their  carriage.  Pray,  mark 
this  : — and  in  the  mean  time  I will  lend  you  some  worms. 

Via,  I am  much  beholden ; and  when  you  come  to  Long 
Acre,  I will  faithfully  repay  you.  But,  look  you,  my  tackle 
is  still  amiss.  My  float  will  not  swim. 

Pis,  It  is  no  miracle — for  here  is  at  least  a good  ounce  of 
swanshots  upon  your  line.  It  is  overcharged  with  lead. 

Via,  I confess,  I am  only  used  to  killing  sparrows,  and 
such  small  fowls,  out  of  the  back-casement.  But  my  igno- 
rance shall  make  me  the  more  thankful  for  your  help  and  in- 
struction. 

Pis,  There.  The  fault  is  amended.  And  now,  observe, — 
you  must  watch  your  cork  very  narrowly,  without  even  an 
eye-wink  another  way ; — for,  otherwise,  you  may  overlook  the 
only  nibble  throughout  the  day. 

Via,  I have  a bite  already ! — my  float  is  going  up  and  down 
like  a ship  at  sea. 

Pis,  No.  It  is  only  that  housemaid  dipping  in  her  bucket, 
which  causes  the  agitation  you  perceive.  ’Tis  a shame  so  to 
interrupt  the  honest  Angler’s  diversion.  It  would  be  but  a 
judgment  of  God,  now,  if  the  jade  should  fall  in ! 

Via^  But  I would  have  her  only  drowned  for  some  brief 
twenty  minutes  or  so — and  then  restored  again  by  the 
Surgeons.  And  yet  I have  doubts  of  the  lawfulness  of  that 
dragging  of  souls  back  again,  that  have  taken  their  formal 
leaves.  In  my  conscience,  it  seems  like  flying  against  the 
laws  of  predestination. 

Pis,  It  is  a doubtful  point ; — for,  on  the  other  hand,  I have 
heard  of  some  that  were  revived  into  life  by  the  Doctors,  and 
came  afterwards  to  be  hanged. 


68 


WALTON  BEDIVIVUS, 


Via,  Marry ! ’tis  pity  such  knaves’  lungs  were  ever 
puffed  up  again ! It  was  good  tobacco-smoke  ill-wasted.  Oh! 
how  pleasant,  now,  is  this  angling,  which  furnishes  us  with 
matter  for  such  agreeable  discourse  1 Surely  it  is  well  called 
a contemplative  recreation,  for  I never  had  half  so  many 
thoughts  in  my  head  before ! 

Pis,  I am  glad  you  relish  it  so  well. 

Via,  I will  take  a summer  lodging  hereabouts,  to  be  near 
the  stream.  How  pleasant  is  this  solitude ! There  are  but 
fourteen  a-fishing  here — and  of  those  but  few  men. 

Pis,  And  we  shall  be  still  more  lonely  on  the  other  side 
of  the  City  Road.  Come,  let’s  across.  ‘ Nay,  we’ll  put  in  our 
lines  lower  down.  There  was  a butcher’s  wife  dragged  for 
at  this  bridge  in  the  last  week. 

Via,  Have  you,  indeed,  any  qualms  of  that  kind  ? 

Pis,  No ; but  hereabouts  ’tis  likely  the  gudgeons  will  be 
gorged.  Now,  we  are  far  enough.  Yonder  is  the  row  of 
Colebrook.  What  a balmy  wholesome  gust  is  blowing  over 
to  us  from  the  cow-lair. 

Via,  For  my  part,  I smell  nothing  but  dead  kittens — for 
here  lies  a whole  brood  in  soak.  Would  you  believe  it,  to 
my  phantasy,  the  nine  days’  blindness  of  these  creatures 
smacks  somewhat  of  a type  of  the  human  pre-existence.  Me- 
thinks,  I have  had  myself  such  a mysterious  being  before  I 
beheld  the  light, — my  dreams  hint  at  it.  A sort  of  world 
before  eye-sight. 

Pis,  I have  some  dim  sympathy  with  your  meaning.  At 
the  Creation,  there  was  such  a kind  of  blindman’s-buff  work. 
The  atoms  jostled  together,  before  there  was  a revealing  sun. 
But  are  we  not  fishing  too  deep  % 

Via,  I am  afeard  on’t ! Would  we  had  a plummet ! We 
shall  catch  weeds. 

Pis,  It  would  be  well  to  fish  thus  at  the  bottom,  if  we 


WALTON  REDIVIVUS, 


69 


were  fishing  for  flounders  in  the  sea.  But  there  you  must 
have  forty  fathom,  or  so,  of  stout  line ; and  then,  with  your 
fish  at  the  end,  it  will  be  the  boy’s  old  pastime  carried  into 
another  element.  I assure  you,  ’tis  like  swimming  a kite  ! 

Via,  It  should  be  pretty  sport — ^but  hush ! My  cork  has 
just  made  a bob.  It  is  diving  under  the  water ! — Holla ! — I 
have  catch’d  a fish ! 

Pis,  Is  it  a great  one  ? 

Via,  Purely,  a huge  one  ! Shall  I put  it  into  the  bottle  ? 

Pis,  It  will  be  well, — and  let  there  be  a good  measure  of 
water,  too,  lest  he  scorch  against  the  glass. 

Via,  How  slippery  and  shining  it  is ! Ah,  he  is  gone  ! 

Pis,  You  are  not  used  to  the  handling  of  a New-River 
fish;  and,  indeed,  very  few  be.  But  hath  he  altogether 
escaped  % 

Via,  No ; I have  his  chin  here,  which  I was  obliged  to  tear 
off,  to  get  away  my  hook. 

Pis,  Well,  let  him  go  : it  would  be  labour  wasted  to  seek 
for  him  amongst  this  rank  herbage.  ’Tis  the  commonest  of 
Anglers’  crosses. 

Via,  I am  comforted  to  consider  he  did  not  fall  into  the 
water  again,  as  he  was  without  a mouth,  and  might  have 
pined  for  years.  Do  you  think  there  is  any  cruelty  in  our 
Art? 

Pis,  As  for  other  methods  of  taking  fish,  I cannot  say  : 
but  I think  none  in  the  hooking  of  them.  For,  to  look  at  the 
gills  of  a fish,  with  those  manifold  red  leaves — like  a house- 
wife’s needle-book, — they  are  admirably  adapted  to  our  pur- 
pose, and  manifestly  intended  by  Nature  to  stick  our  steel  in. 

Via,  I am  glad  to  have  the  question  so  comfortably  re- 
solved— for,  in  truth,  I have  had  some  misgivings.  Now, 
look  how  dark  the  water  grows ! There  is  another  shower 
towards. 


70 


WALTON  BEDIVIVUS. 


Pis,  Let  it  come  down,  and  welcome.  I have  on]  j my 
working-day  clothes  on.  Sunday  coats  spoil  holidays.  Let 
every  thing  hang  loose,  and  time,  too,  will  sit  easy. 

Via,  1 like  your  philosophy.  In  this  world  we  are  the 
fools  of  restraint.  We  starch  our  ruffs  till  they  cut  us  under 
the  ear. 

Pis,  How  pleasant  it  would  he  to  discuss  these  sentiments 
over  a tankard  of  ale  ! I have  a simple  bashfulness  against 
going  into  a public  tavern  ; but  I think  we  could  dodge  into 
the  Castle,  without  being  much  seen. 


Via,  And  I have  a sort  of  shuddering  about  me,  that  is 
willing  to  go  more  frankly  in.  Let  us  put  up  then.  By  my 


A JVJiJW  LlFE-riiESERVER, 


71 


halidom ! here  is  a little  dead  fish  hanging  at  my  hook ; and 
yet  I have  never  felt  him  bite. 

Pis,  ’Tis  only  a little  week-old  gudgeon,  and  he  had  not 
strength  enough  to  stir  the  cork.  However,  we  may  say 
boldly  that  we  have  caught  a fish. 

Via,  Nay,  I have  another  here  in  my  bottle.  He  was 
sleeping  on  his  back  at  the  top  of  the  water,  and  I got  him 
out  nimbly  with  the  hollow  of  my  hand. 

Pis,  We  have  caught  a brace,  then, — besides  the  great  one 
that  was  lost  among  the  grass.  I am  glad  on’t,  for  we  can 
bestow  them  upon  some  poor  hungry  person  in  our  way  home. 
It  is  passable  good  sport  for  the  place. 

Via,  I am  satisfied  it  must  be  called  so.  But  the  next  time 
I come  hither,  I shall  bring  a reel  with  me,  and  a ready-made 
minnow,  for  I am  certain  there  must  be  some  marvellous  huge 
pikes  here ; they  always  make  a scarcity  of  other  fish.  How- 
ever, I have  been  bravely  entertained,  and,  at  the  first  holiday, 
I will  come  to  it  again. 


^ f ifj-jwsjrlier. 

**  Of  hair-breadth  ’scapes.” — Othello. 

I HAVE  read  somewhere  of  a Traveller,  who  carried  with 
him  a brace  of  pistols,  a carbine,  a cutlass,  a dagger,  and 
an  umbrella,  but  was  indebted  for  his  preservation  to  the 
umbrella ; it  grappled  with  a bush,  when  he  was  rolling  over 

a precipice.  In  like  manner,  my  friend  W , though 

armed  with  a sword,  rifle,  and  hunting-knife,  owed  his  exist- 
ence— to  his  wig ! 


72 


A LlFE~PRESmVEn. 


He  was  specimen-hunting,  (for  W is  a first-rate  natu- 

ralist,) somewhere  in  the  backwoods  of  America,  when,  hap- 
pening to  light  upon  a dense  covert,  there  sprang  out  upon 
him, — not  a panther  or  catamountain, — but,  with  a terrible 
whoop  and  yell,  a wild  Indian, — one  of  a tribe  then  hostile  to 

our  settlers.  W ’s  gun  was  mastered  in  a twinkling, 

himself  stretched  on  the  earth,  the  barbarous  knife,  destined 
to  make  him  balder  than  Granby’s  celebrated  Marquis,  leaped 
eagerly  from  its  sheath. 

Conceive  the  horrible  weapon  making  its  preliminary  flour- 
ishes and  circumgyrations ; the  savage  features,  made  savage r 
by  paint  and  ruddle,  working  themselves  up  to  a demoniacal 
crisis  of  triumphant  malignity ; his  red  right-hand  clutching 
the  shearing-knife  ; his  left,  the  frizzle  top-knot ; and  then,  the 
artificial  scalp  coming  off  in  the  Mohawk  grasp ! 

W says,  the  Indian  catchpole  was,  for  some  moments, 

motionless  with  surprise ; recovering,  at  last,  he  dragged  his 
captive  along,  through  brake  and  jungle,  to  the  encampment. 
A peculiar  whoop  soon  brought  the  whole  horde  to  the  spot. 
The  Indian  addressed  them  with  vehement  gestures,  in  the 

course  of  which  W was  again  thrown  down,  the  knife 

again  performed  its  circuits,  and  the  whole  transaction  was 
pantomimically  described.  All  Indian  sedateness  and  restraint 
was  overcome.  The  assembly  made  every  demonstration  of 
wonder ; and  the  wig  was  fitted  on,  rightly,  askew,  and  hind 
part  before,  by  a hundred  pair  of  red  hands.  Captain  Gulli- 
ver’s glove  was  not  a greater  puzzle  to  the  Houhyhnms.  From 
the  men,  it  passed  to  the  squaws,  and  from  them,  down  to 

the  least  of  the  urchins;  W ’s  head,  in  the  mean  time, 

frying  in  a midsummer  sun.  At  length,  the  phenomenon 
returned  into  the  hands  of  the  chief— a venerable  graybeard : 
he  examined  it  afresh,  very  attentively,  and,  after  a long 
deliberation,  maintained  with  true  Indian  silence  and  gravity, 


A NEW  LIFE-PRESEUVER, 


73 


made  a speech  in  his  own  tongue  that  procured  for  the  anxious 
trembling  captive  very  unexpected  honours.  In  fact,  the 
whole  tribe  of  women  and  warriors  danced  round  him,  with 
such  unequivocal  marks  of  homage,  that  even  W com- 

prehended that  he  was  not  intended  for  sacrifice.  He  was 
then  carried  in  triumph  to  their  wigwams ; his  body  daubed 
with  their  body-colours  of  the  most  honourable  patterns ; and 
he  was  given  to  understand  that  he  might  choose  any  of  their 
marriageable  maidens  for  a squaw.  Availing  himself  of  this 
privilege,  and  so  becoming,  by  degrees,  more  a proficient  in 
their  language,  he  learned  the  cause  of  this  extraordinary 
respect.  It  was  considered  that  he  had  been  a great  warrior* 
that  he  had,  by  mischance  of  war,  been  overcome  and  tufted ; 
but  that,  whether  by  valour  or  stratagem,  each  equally  estima- 
ble amongst  the  savages,  he  had  recovered  his  liberty  and  his 
scalp. 

As  long  as  W kept  his  own  counsel,  he  was  safe; 

but  trusting  his  Indian  Delilah  with  the  secret  of  his  locks,  it 
soon  got  wind  amongst  the  squaws,  and  from  them  became 
known  to  the  warriors  and  chiefs.  A solemn  sitting  was  held 
at  midnight  by  the  chiefs,  to  consider  the  propriety  of  knock- 
ing the  poor  wig-owner  on  the  head  ; but  he  had  received  a 
timely  hint  of  their  intention,  and  when  the  tomahawks  sought 
for  him,  he  was  far  on  his  way,  with  his  Life-preserver,  towards 
a British  settlement. 


4 


74 


•■^LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  E06E 


f nk  11^,  Mi  mi  §01," 

Seems,  at  first  sight,  an  unreasonable  demand.  May  I 
profess  no  tenderness  for  Belinda  without  vowing  an  at- 
tachment to  Shock  1 Must  I feel  an  equal  warmth  towards 
my  bosom  friend  and  his  greyhound  ? Some  country  gentle- 
men keep  a pack  of  dogs.  Am  I expected  to  divide  my 
personal  regard  for  my  Lord  D.  amongst  all  his  celebrated 
fox-hounds  ? 

I may  be  constitutionally  averse  to  the  whole  canine 
species;  I have  been  bitten,  perhaps,  in  my  infancy  by  a 
mastiff,  or  pinned  by  a bull-dog.  There  are  harrowing  tales 
on  record  of  hydrophobia,  of  human  barkings,  and  inhuman 
smotherings.  A dog  may  be  my  bugbear.  Again,  there  are 
differences  in  taste.  ^ One  man  may  like  to  have  his  hand 
licked  all  over  by  a grateful  spaniel ; but  I would  not  have 
my  extremity  served  so — even  by  the  human  tongue. 


LOVF.  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOQP 


75 


But  the  proverb,  so  arrogant  and  absolute  in  spirit,  be- 
comes harmless  in  its  common  application.  The  terms  are 
seldom  enforced,  except  by  persons  that  a gentleman  is  not 
likely  to  embrace  in  his  affection — rat-catchers,  butchers  and 
bull-baiters,  tinkers  and  blind  mendicants^  beldames  and 
witches.  A slaughterman’s  tulip-eared  puppy  is  as  likely  to 
engage  one’s  liking  as  his  chuckle-headed  master.  When  a 
courtier  makes  friends  with  a drover,  he  will  not  be  likely  to 
object  to  a sheep-dog  as  a third  party  in  the  alliance. 

“ Love  me,’’  says  Mother  Sawyer,  “ love  my  dog.” 

Who  careth  to  dote  on  either  a witch  or  her  familiar? 
The  proverb  thus  loses  half  of  its  oppression : in  other  cases, 
it  may  become  a pleasant  fiction,  an  agreeable  confession.  I 
forget  what  pretty  Countess  it  was,  who  made  confession  of 
her  tenderness  for  a certain  sea-captain,  by  her  abundant 
caresses  of  his  Esquimaux  wolf-dog.  The  shame  of  the 
avowal  became  milder  (as  the  virulence  of  the  small-pox  is 
abated  after  passing  through  the  constitution  of  a cow)  by 
its  transmission  through  the  animal. 

In  like  manner,  a formal  young  Quaker  and  Quakeress — 
perfect  strangers  to  each  other,  and  who  might  otherwise  have 
sat  mum-chance  together  for  many  hours — fell  suddenly  to 
romping,  merely  through  the  maiden’s  playfulness  with  Oba- 
diah’s  terrier.  The  dog  broke  the  ice  of  formality, — and,  as 
a third  party,  took  off  the  painful  awkwardness  of  self-intro- 
duction. 

Sir  Ulic  Mackilligut,  when  he  wished  to  break  handsomely 
with  Mistress  Tabitha  Bramble,  kicked  her  cur.  The  dog 
broke  the  force  of  the  affront,  and  the  knight’s  gallantry  was 
spared  the  reproach  of  a direct  confession  of  disgust  towards 
the  spinster ; as  the  lady  took  the  aversion  to  herself  only  as 
the  brute’s  ally. 


76 


^^LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG: 


My  stepmother  Hubbard  and  myself  were  not  on  visiting 
terms  for  many  years.  Not,  we  flattered  ourselves,  through 
any  hatred  or  uncharitableness,  disgraceful  between  relations, 
but  from  a constitutional  antipathy  on  the  one  side,  and  a 
doting  affection  on  the  other — to  a dog.  My  breach  of  duty 
and  decent  respect  was  softened  down  into  my  dread  of  hy- 
drophobia: my  second-hand  parent  even  persuaded  herself 
that  I was  jealous  of  her  regard  for  Bijou.  It  was  a com- 
fortable self-delusion  on  both  sides, — but  the  scapegoat  died, 
and  then,  having  no  reasonable  reason  to  excuse  my  visits,  we 
came  to  an  open  rupture.  There  was  no  hope  of  another 
favourite. — My  stepmother  had  no  general  affection  for  the 
race,  but  only  for  that  particular  cur.  It  was  one  of  those 
incongruous  attachments,  not  accountable  to  reason,  but  seem- 
ingly predestined  by  fate.  The  dog  was  no  keepsake — no 


POOR-TRAY  OHARMANT. 


^^LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MV  EOG^' 


77 


favourite  of  a dear  deceased  friend ; — ugly  as  the  brute  was, 
she  loved  him  for  his  own  sake, — not  for  any  fondness  and 
fidelity,  for  he  was  the  most  ungrateful  dog,  under  kindness, 
that  I ever  knew^ — not  for  his  vigilance,  for  he  was  never 
wakeful.  He  was  not  useful,  like  a turnspit;  nor  accom- 
plished, for  he  could  not  dance.  He  had  not  personal  beauty 
even,  to  make  him  a welcome  object ; and  yet,  if  my  relation 
had  been  requested  to  display  her  jewels,  she  would  have 
pointed  to  the  dog,  and  have  answered  in  the  very  spirit  of 
Cornelia, — “ There  is  my  Bijou.” 

Conceive,  Reader,  under  this  endearing  title,  a hideous 
dwarf-mongrel,  half  pug  and  half  terrier,  with  a face  like  a 
frog’s — his  goggle-eyes  squeezing  out  of  his  head : — a body 
like  a barrel-churn,  on  four  short  bandy  legs, — as  if,  in  his 
puppyhood,  he  had  been  ill-nursed, — terminating  in  a tail  like 
a rabbit’s.  There  is  only  one  sound  in  nature,  similar  to  his 
barking : — to  hear  his  voice,  you  would  have  looked,  not  for 
a dog,  but  for  a duck.  He  was  fat,  and  scant  of  breath.  It 
might  have  been  said,  that  he  was  stuffed  alive ; — but  his  lov- 
ing mistress,  in  mournful  anticipation  of  his  death,  kept  a 
handsome  glass  case  to  hold  his  mummy.  She  intended,  like 
Queen  Constance,  to  “ stuff  out  his  vacant  garment  with  his 
form;” — to  have  him  ever  before  her,  ‘‘in  his  habit  as  he 
lived ;” — but  that  hope  was  never  realized. 

In  those  days  there  were  dog-stealers,  as  well  as  slave- 
dealers, — the  kidnapping  of  the  canine,  as  of  the  Negro  victim, 
being  attributable  to  his  skin. 

One  evening.  Bijou  disappeared.  A fruitless  search  was 
made  for  him  at  all  his  accustomed  haunts, — but  at  daybreak 
the  next  morning, — stripped  naked  of  his  skin, — with  a mock 
paper  frill, — and  the  stump  of  a tobacco-pipe  stuck  in  his 
nether  jaw, — he  was  discovered,  set  upright  against  a post ! 

My  stepmother’s  grief  was  ungovernable.  Tears,  which 


78 


^^LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG: 


she  had  not:  wasted  on  her  deceased  step-children,  were  shed 
then.  In  her  first  transport,  a reward  of  £100  was  offered 
for  the  apprehension  of  the  murderers,  hut  in  vain. 

The  remains  of  Bijou,  such  as  they  were,,  she  caused  to  be 
deposited  under  the  lawn. 

I forget  what  popular  poet  was  gratified  with  ten  guineas 
for  writing  his  epitaph;  but  it  was  in  the  measure  of  the 
‘‘  Pleasures  of  Hope.” 


LIST  UNTO  MY  TALE  OE  WO  !” 


A DREAM. 


79 


% Arrant. 

IN  the  figure  above, — (a  medley  of  human  faces,  wherein 
certain  features  belong  in  common  to  different  visages,  the 
eyebrow  of  one,  for  instance,  forming  the  mouth  of  another,) — 
I have  tried  to  typify  a common  characteristic  of  dreams, 
namely,  the  entanglement  of  divers  ideas,  to  the  waking  mind 
distinct  or  incongruous,  but,  by  the  confusion  of  sleep,  insepa- 
rably ravelled  up,  and  knotted  into  Gordian  intricacies.  For, 
as  the  equivocal  feature  in  the  emblem  belongs  indifferently 
to  either  countenance,  but  is  appropriated  by  the  head  that 
happens  to  be  presently  the  object  of  contemplation ; so,  in  a 
dream,  two  separate  notions  will  naturally  involve  some  con- 
vertible incident,  that  becomes,  by  turns,  a symptom  of  both 
in  general,  or  of  either  in  particular.  Thus  are  begotten  the 
most  extravagant  associations  of  thoughts  and  images, — un- 
natural connexions,  like  those  miUrriages  of  forbidden  relation- 
ships, where  mothers  become  cousin  to  their  own  sons  or 
daughters,  and  quite  as  bewildering  as  such  genealogical  em- 
barrassments. 


80 


A BREAM, 


I had  a dismal  dream  once,  of  this  nature,  that  will  serve 
well  for  an  illustration,  and  which  originated  in  the  failure  of 
my  first,  and  last,  attempt  as  a dramatic  writer.  Many  of  my 
readers,  if  I were  to  name  the  piece  in  question,  would  re- 
member its  signal  condemnation.  As  soon  as  the  Tragedy  of 
my  Tragedy  was  completed,  I got  into  a coach,  and  rode  home. 
My  nerves  were  quivering  with  shame  and  mortification.  I 
tried  to  compose  myself  over  “Paradise  Lost,”  but  it  failed  to 
soothe  me.  I flung  myself  into  bed,  and  at  length  slept ! but 
the  disaster  of  the  night  still  haunted  my  dreams ; 1 w^as  again 
in  the  accursed  theatre,  but  with  a difference.  It  was  a com- 
pound of  the  Drury -Lane  Building,  and  Pandemonium.  There 
were  the  old  shining  green  pillars,  on  either  side  of  the  stage, 
but,  above,  a sublimer  dome  than  ever  overhung  mortal  play- 
house. The  wonted  families  were  in  keeping  of  the  forespoken 
seats,  but  the  first  companies  they  admitted  were  new  and 
strange  to  the  place.  The  first  and  second  tiers, 

“With,  dreadful  faces  thronged,  and  fiery  arms,’* 

showed  like  those  purgatorial  circles  sung  of  by  the  ancient 
Florentine.  Satan  was  in  the  stage-box.  The  pit,  dismally 
associated  with  its  bottomless  namesake,  was  peopled  with 
fiends.  Mehu  scowled  from  the  critic’s  seat.  Belial,  flushed 
with  wine,  led  on  with  shout  and  cat-call  the  uproar  of  the  one- 
shilling  infernals.  My  hair  stood  upright  with  dread  and 
horror ; I had  an  appalling  sense,  that  more  than  my  dramatic 
welfare  was  at  stake — that  it  was  to  be  not  a purely  literary 
ordeal.  An  alarming  figure,  sometimes  a newspaper  reporter, 
sometimes  a devil,  so  prevaricating  are  the  communications  of 
sleep,  was  sitting,  with  his  note-book,  at  my  side.  My  play 
began.  As  it  proceeded,  sounds  indescribable  arose  from  the 
infernal  auditory,  increasing  till  the  end  of  the  first  act.  Tlie 
familiar  cry  of  “ Choose  any  oranges !”  was  then  intermingled 


A DREAM, 


81 


with  the  miirmurings  of  demons.  The  tumult  grew  with  the 
progress  of  the  play.  The  last  act  passed  in  dumb  show%  the 
horned  monsters  bellowing,  throughout,  like  the  wild  bulls  of 
Bashan.  Prongs  and  flesh-hooks  showered  upon  the  stage. 
Mrs.  Siddons — the  human  nature  thus  jumbling  with  the  dia^- 
bolical — was  struck  by  a brimstone  ball.  Her  lofty  brother, 
robed  in  imperial  purple,  came  forward  towards  the  orchestra 
to  remonstrate,  and  was  received  like  the  Arch-devil  in  the 
Poem: 


«_ hears 

On  all  sides,  from  innumerable  tongues, 
A dismal  universal  hiss,  the  sound 
Of  public  scorn.” 


He  bowed  to  the  sense  of  the  house,  and  withdrew.  My 
doom  was  sealed ; the  recording  devil  noted  down  my  sen- 
tence. A suflbcating  vapour,  now  smelling  of  sulphur,  and 
now  of  gas,  issued  from  the  unquenchable  stage-lamps.  The 
flames  of  the  Catalonian  Castle,  burning  in  the  back  scene,  in 
compliance  with  the  catastrophe  of  the  piece,  blazed  up  with 
horrible  import.  My  flesh  crept  all  over  me.  I thought  of 
the  everlasting  torments,  and  at  the  next  moment,  of  the 
morrow’s  paragraphs.  I shrunk  from  the  comments  of  the 
Morning  Post,  and  the  hot  marl  of  Malebolge.  The  sins  of 
authorship  had  confounded  themselves,  inextricably,  with  the 
mortal  sins  of  the  law.  I could  not  disentangle  my  own  from 
my  play’s  perdition.  I was  damned : but  whether  spiritually 
or  dramatically,  the  twilight  intelligence  of  a dream  was  not 
clear  enough  to  determine. 

Another  sample,  wherein  the  preliminaries  of  the  dream  in- 
volved one  portion,  and  implicitly  forbade  the  other  half  of  the 
conclusion,  was  more  whimsical.  It  occurred  when  I was  on 
the  eve  of  marriage — a season,  when,  if  lovers  sleep  sparingly, 

4^ 


82 


A DREAM, 


they  dream  profusely.  A very  brief  slumber  sufficed  to  carry 
me  in  the  night-coach  to  Bognor.  It  had  been  concerted,  be- 
tween Honoria  and  myself,  that  we  should  pass  the  honey- 
moon at  some  such  place  upon  the  coast.  The  purpose  of  my 
solitary  journey  was  to  procure  an  appropriate  dwelling,  and 
which,  we  had  agreed,  should  be  a little  pleasant  house,  with 
an  indispensable  look-out  upon  the  sea.  I chose  one  ac- 
cordingly ; a pretty  villa,  with  bow-windows,  and  a prospect 
delightfully  marine.  The  ocean  murmur  sounded  incessantly 
from  the  beach.  A decent  elderly  body,  in  decayed  sables, 
undertook,  on  her  part,  to  promote  the  comforts  of  the  occu- 
pants by  every  suitable  attention,  and,  as  she  assured  me,  at  a 
very  reasonable  rate.  So  far,  the  nocturnal  faculty  had  served 
me  truly.  A day-dream  could  not  have  proceeded  more 
orderly  ; but  alas ! just  here,  when  the  dwelling  was  selected, 
the  sea  view  secured,  the  rent  agreed  upon,  when  every  thing 
was  plausible,  consistent,  and  rational,  the  incoherent  fancy 
crept  in  and  confounded  all, — by  marrying  me  to  the  old 
woman  of  the  house  ! 


OH,  BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME.' 


A DREAM. 


83 


A large  proportion  of  my  dreams  have,  like  the  preceding, 
an  origin  more  or  less  remote  in  some  actual  occurrence. 
But,  from  all  my  observation  and  experience,  the  popular 
notion  is  a mistaken  one,  that  our  dreams  take  their  subject 
and  colour  from  the  business  or  meditations  of  the  day.  It  is 
true  that  sleep  frequently  gives  back  real  images  and  actions, 
like  a mirror  ; but  the  reflection  returns  at  a longer  interval. 
It  extracts  from  pages  of  some  standing,  like  the  “ Retrospect- 
ive Review.”  The  mind,  released  from  its  connexion  with 
external  associations,  flies  off,  gladly,  to  novel  speculations. 
The  soul  does  not  carry  its  tasks  out  of  school.  The  novel, 
read  upon  the  pillow,  is  of  no  more  influence  than  the  bride- 
cake laid  beneath  it.  The  charms  of  Di  Vernon  have  faded, 
with  me,  into  a vision  of  Dr.  Faustus;  the  bridal  dance  and 
festivities,  into  a chase  by  a mad  bullock. 

The  sleeper,  like  the  felon,  at  the  putting  on  of  the  night- 
cap, is  about  to  be  turned  off  from  the  affairs  of  this  world. 
The  material  scaffold  sinks  under  him  ; he  drops — as  it  is 
expressively  called — asleep ; and  the  spirit  is  transported,  we 
know  not  whither ! 

I should  like  to  know  that,  by  any  earnest  application  of 
thought,  we  could  impress  its  subject  upon  the  midnight 
blank.  It  would  be  worth  a day’s  devotion  to  Milton, — 
“ from  morn  till  noon,  from  noon  till  dewy  eve,” — to  obtain 
but  one  glorious  vision  from  the  “Paradise  Lost;”  to  Spenser, 
to  purchase  but  one  magical  reflection — a Fata  Morgana — of 
the  “ Faery  Queen  !”  I have  heard  it  affirmed,  indeed,  by  a 
gentlerdan,  an  especial  advocate  of  Early  Rising,  that  he  could 
procure  whatever  dream  he  wished ; but  I disbelieve  it,  or  he 
would  pass  far  more  hours  than  he  does  in  bed.  If  it  were 
possible,  by  any  process,  to  bespeak  the  night’s  entertain- 
ment, the  theatres,  for  me,  might  close  their  uninviting  doors. 
Who  would  care  to  sit  at  the  miserable  parodies  of  “ Lear,” 


84 


A DREAM, 


“ Hamlet,”  and  “ Othello,” — to  say  nothing  of  the  “ Tempest,” 
or  the  “Midsummer  Night’s  Phantasy,” — that  could  com- 
mand the  representation  of  either  of  those  noble  dramas,  with 
all  the  sublime  personations,  the  magnificent  scenery,  and 
awful  reality  of  a dream  ? 

Por  horrible  fancies,  merely,  nightmares  and  incubi,  there 
is  a recipe  extant,  that  is  currently  attributed  to  the  late  Mr. 
Fuseli.  I mean  a supper  of  raw  pork;  but,  as  I never  slept 
after  it,  I cannot  speak  as  to  the  effect. 


Opium  I have  never  tried,  and,  therefore,  have  never  ex- 
perienced such  magnificent  visions  as  are  described  by  its 
eloquent  historian.  I have  never  been  buried  for  ages  under 
pyramids ; and  yet,  methinks,  have  suffered  agonies  as  intense 
as  hi8  could  be,  from  the  commonplace  inflictions.  For  ex- 
ample, a night  spent  in  the  counting  of  interminable  numbers, 
— an  Inquisitorial  penance — everlasting  tedium — the  Mind’s 
treadmill ! 

Another  writer,  in  recording  his  horrible  dreams,  describes 
himself  to  have  been  sometimes  an  animal  pursued  by  hounds ; 


A DREAM. 


85 


sometimes  a bird,  torn  in  pieces  by  eagles.  They  are  flat 
contradictions  of  my  Theory  of  Dreams.  Such  Ovidian  Met- 
amorphoses never  yet  entered  into  my  experience.  I never 
translate  myself.  I must  know  the  taste  of  rape  and  hemp- 
seed,  and  have  cleansed  my  gizzard  with  small  gravel,  before 
even  Fancy  can  turn  me  into  a bird.  I must  have  another 
nowl  upon  my  shoulders,  ere  I can  feel  a longing  for  “ a bottle 
of  chopt  hay,  or  your  good  dried  oats.”  My  own  habits  and 
prejudices,  all  the  symptoms  of  my  identity,  cling  to  me  in 
my  dreams.  It  never  happened  to  me  to  fancy  myself  a 
child  or  a woman,  dwarf  or  giant,  stone-blind,  or  deprived  of 
any  sense. 

And  here,  the  latter  part  of  the  sentence  reminds  me  of 
an  interesting  question,  on  this  subject,  that  has  greatly  puz- 
zled me,  and  of  which  I should  be  glad  to  obtain  a satis- 
factory solution,  viz. : — How  does  a blind  man  dream  ? I 
mean  a person  with  the  opaque  crystal  from  his  birth.  He 
is  defective  in  that  very  faculty,  which,  of  all  others,  is  most 
active  in  those  night  passages,  thence  emphatically  called 
Visions.  He  has  had  no  acquaintance  with  external  images, 
and  has,  therefore,  none  of  those  transparent  pictures,  that, 
like  the  slides  of  a magic  lantern,  pass  before  the  mind’s  eye, 
and  are  projected  by  the  inward  spiritual  light  upon  the  utter 
blank.  His  imagination  must  be  like  an  imperfect  kaleido- 
scope, totally  unfurnished  with  those  parti-coloured  fragments, 
whereof  the  complete  instrument  makes  such  interminable 
combinations.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  such  a man’s  dream. 

Is  it  a still  benighted  wandering — a pitch-dark  night  prog- 
ress— made  known  to  him  by  the  consciousness  of  the  remain- 
ing senses  % Is  he  still  pulled  through  the  universal  blank,  by 
an  invisible  power,  as  it  were,  at  the  nether  end  of  the  string  ? 
— regaled,  sometimes,  with  celestial  voluntaries  and  unknown 
mysterious  fragrances,  answering  to  our  romantic  flights ; at 


86 


A DREAM, 


other  times,  with  homely  voices  and  more  familiar  odours ; 
here,  of  rank-smelling  cheeses ; there,  of  pungent  pickles  or 
aromatic  drugs,  hinting  his  progress  through  a metropolitan 
street.  Does  he  over  again  enjoy  the  grateful  roundness  of 
those  substantial  droppings  from  the  invisible  passenger, — • 
palpable  deposits  of  an  abstract  benevolence, — or,  in  his  night- 
mares, suffer  anew  those  painful  concussions  and  corporeal 
buffetings,  from  that  (to  him)  obscure  evil  principle,  the 
Parish  Beadle  % 

This  question  I am  happily  enabled  to  resolve,  through  the 
information  of  the  oldest  of  those  blind  Tobits  that  stand  in 
fresco  against  Bunhill  Wall ; the  same  who  made  that  notable 
comparison,  of  scarlet,  to  the  sound  of  a trumpet.  As  I un- 
derstood him,  harmony,  with  the  gravel-blind,  is  prismatic  as 
well  as  chromatic.  To  use  his  own  illustration,  a wall-eyed 
man  has  a 'palette  in  his  ear,  as  well  as  in  his  mouth.  Some 
stone-blinds,  indeed, — dull  dogs, — without  any  ear  for  colour, 
profess  to  distinguish  the  different  hues  and  shades  by  the 
touch ; but  tha%  he  said,  was  a slovenly,  uncertain  method,  and 
in  the  chief  article  of  Paintings  not  allowed  to  be  exercised. 

On  my  expressing  some  natural  surprise  at  the  aptitude 
of  his  celebrated  comparison, — a miraculous  close  likening,  to 
my  mind,  of  the  known  to  the  unknown, — he  told  me,  the 
instance  was  nothing,  for  the  least  discriminative  among 
them  could  distinguish  the  scarlet  colour  of  the  mail  guards’ 
liveries,  by  the  sound  of  their  horns : but  there  were  others, 
so  acute  their  faculty ! that  they  could  tell  the  very  features 
and  complexion  of  their  relatives  and  familiars,  by  the  mere 
tone  of  their  voices.  I was  much  gratified  with  this  explana- 
tion ; for  I confess,  hitherto,  I was  always  extremely  puzzled 
by  that  narrative  in  the  “ Tattler,”  of  a young  gentleman’s 
behaviour  after  the  operation  of  couching,  and  especially  at 
the  wonderful  promptness  with  which  he  distinguished  his 


A DREAM, 


87 


father  from  his  mother — his  mistress  from  her  maid.  But  it 
appears  that  the  blind  are  not  so  blind  as  they  have  been 
esteemed  in  the  vulgar  notion.  What  they  cannot  get  in  one 
way  they  obtain  in  another : they,  in  fact,  realize  what  the 
author  of  Hudibras  has  ridiculed  as  a fiction,  for  they  set  up 

communities  of  senses, 

To  chop  and  change  intelligences. 

As  Rosicrucian  Virtuosis 

Can  see  with  ears — and  hear  with  noses.” 


SPRINO  AND  FAIL. 


88 


TEE  SEA-SPELL, 


PANDEANS. 


%\t 

**  Cauldy  cauld^  he  lies  beneath  the  deep.” — Old  Scotch  Ballad, 

I. 

TT  was  a jolly  mariner ! 

The  tallest  man  of  three, — 

He  loosed  his  tail  against  the  wind, 

And  turned  his  boat  to  sea : 

The  ink-black  sky  told  every  eye, 

A storm  was  soon  to  be ! 

II. 

But  still  that  jolly  mariner 
Took  in  no  reef  at  all, 

For,  in  his  pouch,  confidingly, 

He  wore  a baby’s  caul ; 

A thing,  as  gossip-nurses  know. 

That  always  brings  a squall ! 


THE  SEA-SPELL. 


89 


III. 

His  liat  was  new,  or,  newlj  glaz’d, 
Shone  brightly  in  the  sun ; 

His  jacket,  like  a mariner’s. 

True  blue  as  e’er  was  spun  ; 

His  ample  trowsers,  like  Saint  Paul, 
Bore  forty  stripes  save  one. 


IV. 

And  now  the  fretting  foaming  tide 
He  steer’d  away  to  cross ; 

The  bounding  pinnace  play’d  a game 
Of  di’eary  pitch  and  toss ; 

A game  that,  on  the  good  dry  land. 

Is  apt  to  bring  a loss ! 

V. 

Good  Heaven  befriend  that  little  boat, 
And  guide  her  on  her  way ! 

A boat,  they  say,  has  canvass  wings, 
But  cannot  fly  away  ! 

Though  like  a merry  singing-bird. 

She  sits  upon  the  spray ! 


VI. 

Still  east  by  south  the  little  boat. 

With  tawny  sail  kept  beating  : 

Now  out  of  sight,  between  two  waves. 
Now  o’er  th’  horizon  fleeting : 

Like  greedy  swine  that  feed  on  mast, — 
The  waves  her  mast  seem’d  eating ! 

VII. 

The  sullen  sky  grew  black  above, 

The  wave  as  black  beneath  j 


90 


TEE  SEA-SPELL. 


Each  roaring  billow  showed  full  soon 
A white  and  foamy  wreath ; 

Like  angry  dogs  that  snarl  at  first, 
And  then  display  their  teeth. 

VIII. 

The  boatman  looked  against  the  wind, 
The  mast  began  to  creak, 

The  wave,  per  saltum,  came  and  dried. 
In  salt,  upon  his  cheek ! 

The  pointed  wave  against  him  rear’d. 
As  if  it  own’d  a pique ! 


IX. 

Nor  rushing  wind,  nor  gushing  wave, 
That  boatman  could  alarm. 

But  still  he  stood  away  to  sea, 

And  trusted  in  his  charm ; 

He  thought  by  purchase  he  was  safe. 
And  arm’d  against  all  harm ! 


X. 

Now  thick  and  fast  and  far  aslant. 

The  stormy  rain  came  pouring. 

He  heard  upon  the  sandy  bank. 

The  distant  breakers  roaring, — 

A groaning  intermitting  sound. 

Like  Gog  and  Magog  snoring ! 

XI. 

The  sea-fowl  shriek’d  around  the  mast. 
Ahead  the  grampus  tumbled. 

And  far  off,  from  a copper  cloud. 

The  hollow  thunder  rumbled ; 

It  would  have  quail’d  another  heart. 
But  his  was  never  humbled. 


TTI]^  SEA-SPELL, 


91 


XII. 

For  why  ? he  had  that  infant’s  caul ; 
And  wherefore  should  he  dread  ? 
Alas ! alas ! he  little  thought, 

Before  the  ebb-tide  sped, — 

That,  like  that  infant,  he  should  die, 
And  with  a watery  head ! 

XIII. 

The  rushing  brine  flowed  in  apace : 
His  boat  had  ne’er  a deck ; 

Fate  seemed  to  call  him  on,  and  he 
Attended  to  her  beck ; 

And  so  he  went,  still  trusting  on, 
Though  reckless — to  his  wreck ! 


xiy. 

For  as  he  left  his  helm,  to  heave 
The  ballast-bags  a- weather. 

Three  monstrous  seas  came  roaring  on, 
Like  lions  leagued  together.  * 

The  two  first  waves  the  little  boat 
Swam  over  like  a feather. — 


XY. 

The  two  first  waves  were  past  and  gone, 
And  sinking  in  her  wake ; 

The  hugest  still  came  leaping  on. 

And  hissing  like  a snake. 

Now  helm  a-lee ! for  through  the  midst, 
The  monster  he  must  take ! 


XVI. 

Ah,  me ! it  was  a dreary  mount ! 
Its  base  as  black  as  night. 


92 


THE  SEA-SPELL. 


Its  top  of  pale  and  livid  green, 

Its  crest  of  awful  white, 

Lite  Neptune  with  a leprosy, — 

And  so  it  rear’d  upright ! 

XVII. 

With  quaking  sails  the  little  boat 
Climb’d  up  the  foaming  heap ; 

With  quaking  sails  it  paused  awhile, 

At  balance  on  the  steep ; 

Then  rushing  down  the  nether  slope. 
Plunged  with  a dizzy  sweep ! 

XVIII. 

Look,  how  a horse,  made  mad  with  fear. 
Disdains  his  careful  guide  ; 

So  now  the  headlong  headstrong  boat. 
Unmanaged,  turns  aside, 

And  straight  presents  her  reeling  flank 
Against  the  swelling  tide ! 

• XIX. 

The  gusty  wind  assaults  the  sail ; 

Her  ballast  lies  a-lee ! 

The  sheets  to  windward  taught  and  stiff! 
Oh ! the  Lively — where  is  she  ? 

Her  capsized  keel  is  in  the  foam. 

Her  pennon ’s  in  the  sea ! 


XX. 

The  wild  gull,  sailing  overhead, 
Three  times  beheld  emerge 
The  head  of  that  bold  mariner. 
And  then  she  screamed  his  dirge  ! 
For  he  had  sunk  within  his  grave, 
Lapp’d  in  a shroud  of  surge ! 


THE  SEA-SPELL. 


93 


# XXI. 

The  ensuing  wave,  with  horrid  foam, 
Rush’d  o’er  and  covered  all, — 

The  jolly  boatman’s  drowning  scream 
Was  smother’d  by  the  squall. 

Heaven  never  heard  his  cry,  nor  did 
The  ocean  heed  his  caul. 


94 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY. 


‘‘a  man’s  a man  for  a’  that  I” 


A PATHETIC  BALLAD. 

T>EN  BATTLE  was  a soldier  bold, 
^ And  used  to  war’s  alarms : 

But  a cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 

So  he  laid  down  his  arms ! 

Now  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 

0 Said  he,  “ Let  others  shoot, 

Eor  here  I leave  my  second  leg. 

And  the  Forty-second  Foot !” 

The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs ; 

Said  he, — They’re  only  pegs : 

But  there’s  as  wooden  members  quite, 
As  represent  my  legs !” 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY, 


95 


Now  Ben  lie  loved  a pretty  maid, 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray ; 

So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours, 

When  he^d  devoured  his  pay ! 

But  when  he  ealled  on  Nelly  Gray, 

She  made  him  quite  a scoff. 

And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs — 

Began  to  take  them  off ! 

**  O,  Nelly  Gray ! O,  Nelly  Gray ! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 

The  love  that  loves  a scarlet  coat, 

Should  he  more  uniform !” 

Said  she,  “ I loved  a soldier  once. 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave ; 

But  I will  never  have  a man 
With  both  legs  in  the  grave !” 

“ Before  you  had  those  timber  toes. 

Your  love  I did  allow, 

But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 
Another  footing  now !” 

‘‘  O,  Nelly  Gray ! O,  Nelly  Gray ! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches. 

At  duty’s  call,  I left  my  legs 
In  Badajos’s  breaches 

Why,  then,”  said  she,  you’ve  lost  the  feet 
Of  legs  in  war’s  alarms. 

And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 
Upon  your  feats  of  arms !” 

“ O,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray ; 

I know  why  you  refuse : — 

Though  I’ve  no  feet — some  other  man 
Is  standing  in  my  shoes !” 


\ 


96 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY. 


“ I wish  I ne’er  had  seen  your  face ; 

But,  now,  a long  farewell ! 

For  you  will  be  my  death ; — alas ! 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell 

Now  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got. 

And  life  was  such  a burthen  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a knot ! 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck, 

A rope  he  did  entwine. 

And,  for  his  second  time  in  life. 

Enlisted  in  the  Line ! 

One  end  he  tied  around  a beam. 

And  then  removed  his  pegs. 

And,  as  his  legs  were  off — of  course. 

He  soon  was  off  his  legs ! 

And  there  he  hung,  till  he  was  dead 
As  any  nail  in  town, — ■ 

For  though  distress  had  cut  him  up. 

It  could  not  cut  him  down ! 

A dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died — 

And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 
With  a stake  in  his  inside  ! 


FANCY  PORTEAim 


97 


THE  BAUD  OF  HOPE. 


im(%  portraits. 

Many  authors  preface  their  works  with  a portrait,  and  it 
saves  the  reader  a deal  of  speculation.  The  world  loves 
to  know  something  of  the  features  of  its  favourites : — it  likes 
the  Geniuses  to  appear  bodily  as  well  as  the  Genii.  We  may 
estimate  the  liveliness  of  this  curiosity  by  the  abundance  of 
portraits,  masks,  busts,  china  and  plaster  casts,  that  are  extant, 
of  great  or  would-be  great  people.  As  soon  as  a gentleman 
has  proved  in  print,  that  he  really  has  a head,  a score  of 
artists  begin  to  brush  at  it.  The  literary  lions  have  no  peace 
to  their  manes.  Sir  Walter  is  eternally  sitting,  like  Theseus, 
to  some  painter  or  other ; and  the  late  Lord  Byron  threw  out 
more  heads  befxo  he  died  than  Hydra.  The  first  novel  of 
Mr.  Galt  ha^  barely  been  announced  in  the  second  edition, 

5 


98 


FANCY  PORTRAITS, 


when  he  was  requested  to  allow  himself  to  be  taken  in  one 
minute Mr.  Geoffrey  Crayon  was  no  sooner  known  to  be 
Mr.  Washington  Irving,  than  he  was  waited  upon  with  a sheet 
of  paper  and  a pair  of  scissors. 

The  whole  world,  in  fact,  is  one  Lavater;  it  likes  to  find 
its  prejudices  confirmed  by  the  Hook  nose  of  the  Author  of 
Sayings  and  Doings,  or  the  lines  and  angles  in  the  honest  face 
of  Izaac  Walton.  It  is  gratified  in  dwelling  on  the  repulsive 
features  of  a Newgate  ordinary ; and  would  be  disappointed 
to  miss  the  seraphic  expression  on  the  Author  of  the  Angel 
of  the  World.  The  Old  Bailey  jurymen  are  physiognomists 
to  a fault ; and  if  a rope  can  transform  a malefactor  into  an 
Adonis,  a hard  gallows  face  as  often  brings  the  malefactor  to 
the  rope.  A low  forehead  is  enough  to  bring  down  its  head 
to  the  dust.  A well-favoured  man  meets  with  good  counte- 
nance ; but  when  people  are  plain  and  hard-featured,  (like  the 
poor,  for  instance,)  we  grind  their  faces, — an  expression,  I am 
convinced,  that  refers  to  physiognomical  theory. 


lot*  CltAlBClS* 


FANCY  POETKAITH. 


09 


For  my  part,  I confess  a sympathy  with  the  common 
failing.  I take  likings  and  dislikings,  as  some  play  music — 
at  sight.  The  polar  attractions  and  repulsions  insisted  on  by 
the  phrenologist,  affect  me  not ; but  I am  not  proof  against  a 
pleasant  or  villainous  set  of  features.  Sometimes,  I own,  I 
am  led  by  the  nose  (not  my  own,  but  that  of  the  other  party) 
— in  my  prepossessions. 

My  curiosity  does  not  object  to  the  disproportionate  number 
of  portraits  in  the  annual  exhibition, — nor  grudge  the  expense 
of  engraving  a gentleman’s  head  and  shoulders.  Like  Judith, 
and  the  daughter  of  Herodias,  I have  a taste  for  a head  in  a 
plate,  and  accede  cheerfully  to  the  charge  of  the  charger.  A 
book  without  a portrait  of  the  author,  is  worse  than  anony- 
mous. As  in  a churchyard,  you  may  look  on  any  number  of 
ribs  and  shin-bones,  as  so  many  sticks  merely,  without  in- 
terest ; but  if  there  should  chance  to  be  a skull  near  hand,  it 
claims  the  relics  at  once, — so  it  is  with  the  author’s  head- 
piece  in  front  of  his  pages.  The  portrait  claims  the  work. 
The  Arcadia,  for  instance,  I know  is  none  of  mine — it  belongs 
to  that  young  fair  gentleman,  in  armour,  with  a ruff. 

So  necessary  it  is  for  me  to  have  an  outward  visible  sign 
of  the  inward  spiritual  poet  or  philosopher,  that  in  default  of 
an  authentic  resemblance,  I cannot  help  forging  for  him  an 
effigy  in  my  mind’s  eye — a Fancy  Portrait.  A few  examples 
of  contemporaries  I have  sketched  down,  but  my  collection  is 
far  from  complete. 

How  have  I longed  to  glimpse,  in  fancy,  the  Great  Un- 
known ! — the  Eoc  of  Literature ! — but  he  keeps  his  head,  like 
Ben  Lomond,  enveloped  in  a cloud.  How  have  I sighed  for 
a beau  ideal  of  the  author  of  Christabel,  and  the  Ancient 
Marinere! — but  I have  been  mocked  with  a dozen  images, 
confusing  each  other,  and  indistinct  as  water  is  in  water.  My 
only  clear  revelation  was  a pair  of  Hessian  boots  highly 


100 


FANCY  PORTRAITS. 


polished,  or  what  the  ingenious  Mr.  Warren  would  denomi- 
nate his  “ Aids  to  Eeflection !” 


MR.  BOWLES. 


THE  AUTHOR  OF  BROAD  GRINS. 


I was  more  certain  of  the  figure,  at  least,  of  Dr.  Kitchener, 
(p.  26,)  though  I had  a misgiving  about  his  features,  which 
made  me  have  recourse  to  a substitute  for  his  head.  Moore’s 
profile  struck  me  over  a bottle  after  dinner,  and  the  counte- 
nance of  Mr.  Bowles  occurred  to  me,  as  in  a mirror, — by  a 
tea-table  suggestion ; Colman’s  at  the  same  service ; and  Mr. 
Crabbe  entered  my  mind’s  eye  with  the  supper.  But  the 
Bard  of  Hope — the  Laureate  of  promise  and  expectation — 


FANCY  PORTRAITS, 


101 


occurred  to  me  at  no  meal-time.  We  all  know  how  Hope 
feeds  her  own. 

I had  a lively  image  of  the  celebrated  Denon,  in  a mid- 
night dream,  (p.  84,)  and  made  out  the  full  length  of  the 
juvenile  Graham,  from  a hint  of  Mr.  Hilton’s. 

At  a future  season,  I hope  to  complete  my  gallery  of 
Taney  Portraits. 


ANACREON,  JUNIOR. 


102 


TEE  MORNING  CALL. 


Porniitg  Call 

T CANNOT  conceive  any  prospect  more  agreeable  to  a 

weary  traveller  than  the  approach  to  Bedfordshire,  Each 
valley  reminds  him  of  Sleepy  Hollow ; the  fleecy  clouds  seem 
like  blankets  ; the  lakes  and  ponds  are  clean  sheets  ; the  set- 
ting sun  looks  like  a warming-pan.  He  dreams  of  dreams 
to.  come.  His  travelling-cap  transforms  to  a nightcap ; the 
coachdining  feels  softlier  squabbed;  the  guard’s  horn  plays 
“ Lullaby.”  Every  flower  by  the  roadside  is  a poppy.  Each 
jolt  of  the  coach  is  but  a drowsy  stumble  up  stairs.  The 
lady  opposite  is  the  chambermaid  ; the  gentleman  beside  her 
is  Boots.  He  slides  into  imaginary  slippers  ; he  winks  and 
nods  flirtingly  at  Sleep,  so  soon  to  be  his  own.  Although  the 
wheels  may  be  rattling  into  vigilant  Wakefield,  it  appears  to 
him  to  be  sleepy  Ware,  with  its  great  Bed,  a whole  County  of 
Down  spread  ‘‘  all  before  him  where  to  choose  his  place  of  rest.” 

It  was  in  a similar  mood,  after  a long,  dusty,  droughty  dog- 
day’s  journey,  that  I entered  the  Dolphin,  at  Bedhampton.  I 
nodded  in  at  the  door,  winked  at  the  lights,  blinked  at  the 
company  in  the  coffee-room,  yawned  for  a glass  of  negus, 
swallowed  it  with  my  eyes  shut,  as  though  it  had  been  “ a 
pint  of  nappy,”  surrendered  my  boots,  clutched  a candlestick, 
and  blundered,  slipshod,  up  the  stairs  to  number  nine. 

Blessed  be  the  man,  says  Sancho  Panza,  who  first  invented 
sleep:  and  blessed  be  heaven  that  he  did  not  take  put  a 
patent,  and  keep  his  discovery  to  himself.  My  clothes 
dropped  off  me  : I saw  through  a drowsy  haze  the  likeness 
of  a four-poster:  Great  Nature’s  second  course”  was  spread 
before  me  ; — and  I fell  to  without  a long  grace  ! 


THE  MORNING  CALL. 


103 


Here’s  a bedy — there’s  a bed ! 
There’s  a pillow — here’s  a head! 
There’s  a curtain — here’s  a light! 
There’s  a puff — and  so  Good  Night! 


It  would  have  been  gross  improvidence  to  waste  more  words 
on  the  occasion ; for  I was  to  be  roused  up  again  at  four 
o’clock  the  next  morning,  to  proceed  by  the  early  coach.  I 
determined,  therefore,  to  do  as  much  sleep  within  the  interval 
as  I could  ; and  in  a minute,  short  measure,  I was  with  that 
mandarin,  Morpheus,  in  his  Land  of  Nod. 

How  intensely  we  sleep  when  we  are  fatigued ! Some  as 
sound  as  tops,  others  as  fast  as  churches.  For  my  own  part, 
I must  have  slept  as  fast  as  a cathedral, — as  fast  as  Young 
Rapid  wished  his  father  to  slumber : — nay,  as  fast  as  the 
French  veteran  who  dreams  over  again  the  whole  Russian 
campaign  while  dozing  in  his  sentry-box.  I must  have  slept 
as  fast  as  a fast  post-coach  in  my  four-poster — or,  rather,  I 
must  have  slept  “ like  winkin,”  for  I seemed  hardly  to  have 
closed  my  eyes,  when  a voice  cried — “ Sleep  no  more !” 

It  was  that  of  Boots,  calling  and  knocking  at  the  door, 
whilst  through  the  keyhole  a ray  of  candlelight  darted  into 
my  chamber. 

“ Who’s  there  r 

“ It’s  me,  your  honour ; I humbly  ax  pardon — but  somehow 
I’ve  oversleeped  myself,  and  the  coach  be  gone  by  !” 

“ The  devil  it  is ! — then  I have  lost  my  place  !” 

‘‘  No,  not  exactly,  your  honour.  She  stops  a bit  at  the 
Dragon,  ’tother  end  o’  the  town  ; and  if  your  honour  wouldn’t 
object  to  a bit  of  a run — ” 

“ That’s  enough — come  in.  Put  down  the  light — and  take 
up  that  bag — my  coat  over  your  arm — and  waistcoat  with 
it — and  that  cravat.” 

Boots  acted  according  to  orders.  I jumped  out  of  bed — 


104 


TEE  MOBNINQ  CALL. 


pocketed  my  nightcap — screwed  on  my  stockings — plunged 
into  my  trowsers — rammed  my  feet  into  wrong  right  and  left 
boots — tumbled  down  the  back  stairs — burst  through  a door, 
and  found  myself  in  the  fresh  air  of  the  stable  yard,  holding  a 
lantern,  which,  in  sheer  haste,  or  spleen,  I pitched  into  the 
horse-pond.  Then  began  the  race,  during  which  I completed 
my  toilet,  running  and  firing  a verbal  volley  at  Boots,  as  often 
as  I could  spare  breath  for  one. 

“ And  you  call  this  waking  me  up  for  the  coach.  My 
waistcoat ! — Why  I could  wake  myself — too  late — without 
being  called.  Now  my  cravat — and  be  hanged  to  you ! — 
Confound  that  stone  ! — and  give  me  my  coat.  A nice  road — 
for  a run  ! — I suppose  you  keep  it — on  purpose.  How  many 
gentlemen — may  you  do  a week  % — I’ll  tell — you  what.  If  I 
— run — a foot — further — ” 

I paused  for  wind ; while  Boots  had  stopped  of  his  own 
accord.  We  had  turned  a corner  into  a small  square  ; and 
on  the  opposite  side,  certainly  stood  an  inn  with,  the  sign  of 
The  Dragon,  but  without  any  sign  of  a coach  at  the  door. 
Boots  stood  beside  me,  aghast,  and  surveying  the  house  from 
the  top  to  the  bottom ; not  a wreath  of  smoke  came  from  a 
chimney  ; the  curtains  were  closed  over  every  window,  and 
the  door  was  closed  and  shuttered.  I could  hardly  contain 
my  indignation  when  I looked  at  the  infernal  somnolent  visage 
of  the  fellow,  hardly  yet  broad  awake — be  kept  rubbing  his 
black-lead  eyes  with  his  hands,  as  if  he  would  have  rubbed 
them  out. 

“ Yes,  you  may  well  look — you  have  overslept  yourself 
with  a vengeance.  The  coach  must  have  passed  an  hour  ago, 
and  they  have  all  gone  to  bed  again !” 

“ No,  there  be  no  coach,  sure  enough,”  soliloquized  Boots, 
slowly  raising  his  eyes  from  the  road,  where  he  had  been 
searching  for  the  track  of  recent  wheels,  and  fixing  them  with 


A LEGEND  OF  NAVARRE, 


105 


a deprecating  expression  on  my  face.  “ No,  there’s  no  coach — 
I ax  a thousand  pardons,  your  honour — but  you  see,  sir,  what 
with  waiting  on  her,  and  talking  on  her,  and  expecting  on  her, 
and  giving  notice  on  her,  every  night  of  my  life,  your  honour 
— why  I sometimes  dreams  on  her — and  that’s  the  case  as  is 
now  !” 


I. 

’rpWAS  in  the  reign  of  Lewis,  call’d  the  Great, 
As  one  may  read  on  his  triumphal  arches, 
The  thing  befell  I’m  going  to  relate, 

In  course  of  one  of  those  ‘‘  pomposo”  marches 
He  loved  to  make,  like  any  gorgeous  Persian, 
Partly  for  war,  and  partly  for  diversion. 


II. 

Some  wag  had  put  it  in  the  royal  brain 
To  drop  a visit  at  an  old  chateau, 

Quite  unexpected,  with  his  courtly  train ; 

The  monarch  liked  it, — ^but  it  happened  so. 
That  Death  had  got  before  them  by  a post, 

And  they  were  “ reckoning  without  their  ho8t^' 

III. 

Who  died  exactly  as  a child  should  die. 
Without  one  groan  or  a convulsive  breath. 
Closing  without  one  pang  his  quiet  eye, 

Sliding  composedly  from  sleep — to  death ; 

A corpse  so  placid  ne’er  adorn’d  a bed, 

He  seem’d  not  quite — but  only  rather  dead. 

5^ 


106 


A LEGEND  OF  NAYABRE, 


IV. 

All  night  the  widow’d  Baroness  contriv’d 
To  shed  a widow’s  tears ; but  on  the  morrow 
Some  news  of  such  unusual  sort  arriv’d, 

There  came  strange  alteration  in  her  sorrow ; 

From  mouth  to  mouth  it  pass’d,  one  common  humming 
Throughout  the  house — the  King ! the  King  is  coming 


V. 

The  Baroness,  with  all  her  soul  and  heart, 

A loyal  woman,  (now  called  ultra  royal,) 

Soon  thrust  all  funeral  concerns  apart. 

And  only  thought  about  a banquet  royal ; 

In  short,  by  aid  of  earnest  preparation. 

The  visit  quite  dismiss’d  the  visitation. 

VI. 

And,  spite  of  all  her  grief  for  the  ex-mate, 

There  was  a secret  hope  she  could  not  smother, 
That  some  one,  early,  might  replace  ‘‘  the  late”-— 

It  was  too  soon  to  think  about  another ; 

Yet  let  her  minutes  of  despair  be  reckon’d 
Against  her  hope,  which  was  but  for  a second, 

VII. 

She  almost  thought  that  being  thus  bereft 

Just  then,  was  one  of  time’s  propitious  touches  5 
A thread  in  such  a nick  so  nick’d,  it  left 
Free  opportunity  to  be  a duchess ; 

Thus  all  her  care  was  only  to  look  pleasant. 

But  as  for  tears — ^she  dropp’d  them — ^for  the  present. 

VIII. 

Her  household,  as  good  servants  ought  to  try, 
Look’d  like  their  lady — any  thing  but  sad, 

And  giggled  even  that  they  might  not  cry, 

To  damp  fine  company  j in  truth  they  had 


A LEGEND  OF  NA  VARRE, 


107 


No  time  to  mourn,  through  choking  turkeys’  throttles, 
Scouring  old  laces,  and  reviewing  bottles. 


IX. 

Oh  what  a hubbub  for  the  house  of  wo ! 

All,  resolute  to  one  irresolution, 

Kept  tearing,  swearing,  plunging  to  and  fro, 

Just  like  another  French  mob-revolution. 
There  lay  the  corpse  that  could  not  stir  a muscle, 
But  all  the  rest  seem’d  Chaos  in  a bustle. 


X. 

The  Monarch  came:  oh!  who  could  ever  guess 
The  Baroness  had  been  so  late  a weeper !. 

The  kingly  grace  and  more  than  graciousness, 
Buried  the  poor  defunct  some  fathoms  deeper, — 
Could  he  have  had  a glance — alas,  poor  Being ! 
Seeing  would  certainly  have  led  to  Z) — ing. 


XI. 

For  casting  round  about  her  eyes  to  find 
Some  one  to  whom  her  chatties  to  endorse, 
The  comfortable  dame  at  last  inclin’d 

To  choose  the  cheerful  Master  of  the  Horse ; 
He  was  so  gay, — so  tender, — the  complete 
Nice  man, — the  sweetest  of  the  monarch’s  suite. 

XII. 

He  saw  at  once  and  enter’d  in  the  lists — 

Glance  unto  glance  made  amorous  replies ; 
They  talk’d  together  like  two  egotists, 

In  conversation  all  made  up  of  eyes  : 

No  couple  ever  got  so  right  consort-ish 
Within  two  hours — a courtship  rather  shortish. 


108 


A LmEND  OF  NAVABRE, 


XIII. 

At  last,  some  sleepy,  some  by  wine  opprest. 

The  courtly  company  began  nid  noddin 
The  King  first  sought  his  chamber,  and  the  rest 
Instanter  followed  by  the  course  he  trod  in. 

I shall  not  please  the  scandalous  by  showing 
The  order,  or  disorder  of  their  going. 

XIV. 

The  old  Chateau,  before  that  night,  had  never 
Held  half  so  many  underneath  its  roof ; 

It  task’d  the  Baroness’s  best  endeavour. 

And  put  her  best  con  trivance  to  the  proof. 

To  give  them  chambers  up  and  down  the  stairs, 

In  twos  and  threes,  by  singles,  and  by  pairs. 

XV. 

She  had  just  lodging  for  the  whole — yet  barely ; 

And  some,  that  were  both  broad  of  back  and  tall, 
Lay  on  spare  beds  that  served  them  very  sparely  5 
However,  there  were  beds  enough  for  all ; 

But  living  bodies  occupied  so  many. 

She  could  not  let  the  dead  one  take  up  any ! 

XVI. 

The  act  was,  certainly,  not  over  decent ; 

Some  small  respect,  e’en  after  death,  she  ow’d  him, 
Considering  his  death  had  been  so  recent ; 

However,  by  command,  her  servants  stow’d  him, 

(I  am  asham’d  to  think  how  he  was  slubber’d,) 

Stuck  bolt  upright  within  a corner  cupboard ! 

XVII. 

And  there  he  slept  as  soundly  as  a post. 

With  no  more  pillow  than  an  oaken  shelf  j 
Just  like  a kind  accommodating  host, 

Taking  all  inconvenience  on  himself; 


A LEGEND  OF  N AVAR  EE, 


109 


None  else  slept  in  that  room,  except  a stranger, 
A decent  man,  a sort  of  Forest  Ranger. 

XVIII. 

Who,  whether  he  had  gone  too  soon  to  bed. 

Or  dreamt  himself  into  an  appetite, 

Howbeit,  he  took  a longing  to  be  fed, 

About  the  hungry  middle  of  the  night ; 

So  getting  forth,  he  sought  some  scrap  to  eat, 
Hopeful  of  some  stray  pasty,  or  cold  meat. 


THE  SPARE  BED. 


XIX. 

The  casual  glances  of  the  midnight  moon. 
Brightening  some  antique  ornaments  of  brass. 
Guided  his  gropings  to  that  corner  soon. 

Just  where  it  stood,  the  coffin-safe,  alas ! 

He  tried  the  door — then  shook  it — and  in  course 
Of  time  it  opened  to  a little  force. 


no 


A LEGEND  OF  NAY ABRE, 


XX. 

He  put  one  hand  in,  and  began  to  grope ; 

The  place  was  very  deep,  and  quite  as  dark  as 
The  middle  night ; — when  lo ! beyond  his  hope, 

He  felt  a something  cold, — in  fact,  the  carcase  5 
Kight  overjoyed,  he  laugh’d  and  blest  his  luck 
At  finding,  as  he  thought,  this  haunch  of  buck ! 

XXI. 

Then  striding  back  for  his  couteau  de  chasse. 

Determin’d  on  a little  midnight  lunching, 

He  came  again  and  prob’d  about  the  mass. 

As  if  to  find  the  fattest  bit  for  munching ; 

Not  meaning  wastefully  to  cut  it  all  up, 

But  only  to  abstract  a little  collop. 

XXII. 

But  just  as  he  had  struck  one  greedy  stroke. 

His  hand  fell  down  quite  powerless  and  weak ; 

For  when  he  cut  the  haunch  it  plainly  spoke 
As  haunch  of  ven’son  never  ought  to  speak ; 

No  wonder  that  his  hand  could  go  no  further— 

Whose  could? — to  carve  cold  meat  that  bellow’d,  “murther !” 

XXIII. 

Down  came  Mie  Body  with  a bounce,  and  down 
The  Ranger  sprang,  a staircase  at  a spring, 

And  bawl’d  enough  to  waken  up  a town ; 

Some  thought  that  they  were  murder’d,  some,  the  King, 
And,  like  Macduff,  did  nothing  for  a season, 

But  stand  upon  the  spot  and  bellow,  “ Treason  !’* 

XXIV. 

A hundred  nightcaps  gather’d  in  a mob. 

Torches  drew  torches,  swords  brought  swords  together, 
It  seem’d  so  dark  and  perilous  a job ; 

The  Baroness  came  trembling  like  a feather 


A LEGEND  OF  NA  VAERE. 


Ill 


Just  in  the  rear,  as  pallid  as  a corse, 

Leaning  against  the  Master  of  the  Horse. 

XXV. 

A dozen  of  the  bravest  up  the  stair. 

Well  lighted  and  well  watch’d,  began  to  clamber ; 
They  sought  the  door — they  found  it — they  were  there, 
A dozen  heads  went  poking  in  the  chamber ; 

And  lo ! with  one  hand  planted  on  his  hurt. 

There  stood  the  Body  bleeding  thro’  his  shirt, — 

XXVI. 

No  passive  corse — but  like  a duellist 

Just  smarting  from  a scratch — in  fierce  position, 

One  hand  advanc’d,  and  ready  to  resist ; 

In  fact,  the  Baron  doff’d  the  apparition. 

Swearing  those  oaths  the  French  delight  in  most. 

And  for  the  second  time  “ gave  up  the  ghost !” 

XXVII. 

A living  miracle !— for  why  ? — the  knife 

That  cuts  so  many  off  from  grave  gray  hairs, 

Had  only  carv’d  him  kindly  into  life : 

How  soon  it  chang’d  the  posture  of  affairs ! 

The  difference  one  person  more  or  less 
Will  make  in  families,  is  past  all  guess. 

XXVIII. 

There  stood  the  Baroness — no  widow  yet : 

Here  stood  the  Baron — “ in  the  body”  still ; 

There  stood  the  Horses’  Master  in  a pet. 

Choking  with  disappointment’s  bitter  pill, 

To  see  the  hope  of  his  reversion  fail. 

Like  that  of  riding  on  a donkey’s  tail. 


112 


A LEGEND  OF  NAVARRE, 


XXIX, 

The  Baron  liv’d — ’twas  nothing  hut  a trance : 

The  lady  died — ’twas  nothing  but  a death : 
The  cupboard-cut  serv’d  only  to  enhance 

This  postscript  to  the  old  Baronial  breath : — 
He  soon  forgave,  for  the  revival’s  sake, 

A little  c/ioj)  intended  for  a stea^  / 


don’t  you  get  UP  BEHIND?” 


THE  PIWGliESS  OF  ART. 


113 


|i:0uress  0f  Jlri 

I. 

A HAPPY  time ! Art’s  early  days ! 

When  o’er  each  deed,  with  sweet  self-praise, 
Narcissus-like  I hung ! 

When  great  Rembrandt  but  little  seem’d, 

And  such  Old  Masters  all  were  deem’d 
As  nothing  to  the  young ! 


II. 

Some  scratchy  strokes — abrupt  and  few, 
So  easily  and  swift  I drew. 

Suffic’d  for  my  design ; 

My  sketchy,  superficial  hand, 

Drew  solids  at  a dash — and  spann’d 
A surface  with  a line. 


tee  progress  of  ARt^ 

III. 

Not  long  my  content, 

But  grew  ^J^S^^tical — my  bent 
higher  walk ; 

K^ed  leaden  eyes  in  lead — 
Hheumatic  hands  in  white  and  red, 
And  gouty  feet — in  chalk. 


IV. 

Anon  my  studious  art  for  days 
Kept  making  faces — happy  phrase. 

For  faces  such  as  mine ! 
Accomplish’d  in  the  details  then, 

I left  the  minor  parts  of  men, 

And  drew  the  form  divine. 

V. 

Old  Gods  and  Heroes — Trojan — Greek, 
Figures — long  after  the  antique. 

Great  Ajax  justly  fear’d ; 

Hectors,  of  whom  at  night  I dreamt, 
And  Nestor,  fring’d  enough  to  tempt 
Bird-nesters  to  his  heard. 

VI. 

A Bacchus,  leering  on  a howl, 

A Pallas,  that  out-star’d  her  owl, 

A Vulcan — very  lame  ; 

A Dian  stuck  about  with  stars, 

With  my  right  hand  I murder’d  Mars— 
(One  Williams  did  the  same.) 

VII. 

But  tir’d  of  this  dry  work  at  last. 
Crayon  and  chalk  aside  I cast. 

And  gave  my  brush  a drink ! 
Dipping — “ as  when  a painter  dips 
In  gloom  of  earthquake  and  eclipse,”— 
That  is — ^in  Indian  ink. 


TEE  PEOGKESS  OF  ART. 


115 


Tin. 

Oh  then,  wliat  Mont  Blancs  arose, 
Crested  with  soot,  and  snows : 

What  clouds  of  dingy  huc» 

In  spite  of  what  the  bard  has  penn'a, 

I fear  the  distance  did  not  lend 
Enchantment  to  the  view.” 


IX. 

Not  Radclyffe’s  brush  did  e’er  design 
Black  Forests,  half  so  black  as  piine, 
Or  lakes  so  like  a pall ; 

The  Chinese  cake  dispers’d  a ray 
Of  darkness,  like  the  light  of  Day 
And  Martin  over  all. 


X. 

Yet  urchin  pride  sustain’d  me  still, 

I gazed  on  all  with  right  good  will. 

And  spread  the  dingy  tint ; 

“ No  holy  Luke  help’d  me  to  paint. 

The  devil  surely,  not  a Saint, 

Had  any  finger  in ’t !” 

XI. 

But  colours  came ! — like  morning  light. 
With  gorgeous  hues  displacing  night, 

Or  Spring’s  enliven’d  scene  : 

At  once  the  sable  shades  withdrew ; 

My  skies  got  very,  very  blue ; 

My  trees  extremely  green. 

XII. 

And  wash’d  by  my  cosmetic  brush. 

How  Beauty’s  cheek  began  to  blush ; 

With  lock  of  auburn  stain — 

(Not  Goldsmith’s  Auburn) — nut-brown  hair, 
That  made  her  loveliest  of  the  fair ; 

Not  “ loveliest  of  the  plain !” 


116 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ART. 


XIII. 

Her  lips  were  of  vermilion  hue, 

Love  in  her  eve.*?,  ^nd  Prussian  blue, 

Set  heart  in  flame ! 

A Pygmalion,  I ador’d 

The  maids  I made — but  time  was  stor’d 
With  evil — and  it  came ! , 

XIV. 

Perspective  dawn’d — and  soon  I saw 
My  houses  stand  against  its  law ; 

And  ‘‘keeping”  all  unkept! 

My  beauties  were  no  longer  things 
For  love  and  fond  imaginings ; 

But  horrors  to  be  wept ! 

XV. 

Ah ! why  did  knowledge  ope  my  eyes  ? 
Why  did  I get  more  artist- wise  ? 

It  only  serves  to  hint 
What  grave  defects  and  wants  are  mine ; 
That  I’m  no  Hilton  in  design — 

In  nature  no  Dewint  I 

XVI. 

Thrice  happy  time ! — Art’s  early  days ! 
When  o’er  each  deed,  with  sweet  self-praise, 
Narcissus-like  I hung ! 

When  great  Rembrandt  but  little  seem’d, 
And  such  Old  Masters  all  were  deem’d 
As  nothing  to  the  young ! 


A SCHOOL  FOR  ADULTS. 


117 


% for  Jibults. 


Servant, 

How  well  you  saw 

Your  father  to  school  to-day,  knowing  how  apt 

He  is  to  play  the  truant. 

Son, 

But  is  he  not 

Yet  gone  to  school  ? 

Servant, 

Stand  by,  and  you  shall  see. 

Enter  three  Old  Men  with  satchels,  singing. 


All  Three, 
Son, 

Old  Man, 
Son, 


Domine,  Domine,  duster, 

Three  knaves  in  a cluster. 

O this  is  gallant  pastime.  Nay,  come  on ; 

Is  this  your  school  ? was  that  your  lesson,  ha  ? 
Pray,  now,  good  son,  indeed,  indeed — 

Indeed 

You  shall  to  school.  Away  with  him ! and  take 
Their  wagships  with  him,  the  whole  cluster  of  them. 


118 


A SCHOOL  FOE  ADULTS. 


2d  Old  Man,  You  sWn’t  send  us,  now,  so  sha’n’t — 

3c?  Old  Man.  We  be  none  of  your  so  we  be’nt. — 

^^ay  with  ’em,  ^ *^^7  5 their  school  mistress 

What  tru»«*^  V^J  soundly. 

All  Three,  Ob7  «h!  oh! 

Lady.  nobody  beg  pardon  for 

The  poor  old  boys  ? 

traveller.  Do  men  of  such  fair  years  here  go  to  school  ? 
Native.  They  would  die  dunces  else. 

These  were  great  scholars  in  their  youth ; but  when 
• Age  grows  upon  men  here,  their  learning  wastes 

And  so  decays,  that,  if  they  live  until 
Tlireescore,  their  sons  send  ’em  to  school  again ; 
They’d  die  as  speechless  else  as  new-born  children. 
Traveller,  ’Tis  a wise  nation,  and  the  piety 

Of  the  young  men  most  rare  and  commendable ; 

Yet  give  me,  as  a stranger,  leave  to  beg 
Their  liberty  this  day. 

Son.  ’Tis  granted. 

Hold  up  your  heads ; and  thank  the  gentleman, 
Like  scholars,  with  your  heels  now. 

All  Three.  Gratias ! Gratias ! Gratias ! \_Mxeunt  Singing. 

“ Tiie  Antipodes.” — By  R.  Brome. 


Amongst  the  foundations  for  the  promotion  of  National 
Education,  I had  heard  of  Schools  for  Adults ; but  I doubted 
of  their  existence.  They  were,  I thought,  merely  the  fancies  of 
old  dramatists,  such  as  that  scene  just  quoted ; or  the  suggest 
tions  of  philanthropists — the  theoretical  buildings  of  modern 
philosophers — benevolent  prospectuses  drawn  up  by  warm- 
hearted enthusiasts,  but  of  schemes  never  to  be  realized. 
They  were  probably  only  the  bubble  projections  of  a junto 
of  interested  pedagogues,  not  content  with  the  entrance- 
moneys  of  the  • rising  generation,  but  aiming  to  exact  a 


A SCHOOL  FOR  ADULTS. 


1 10 

premium  from  the  unlettered  gray-heard.  The  age,  I argued, 
was  not  ripe  for  such  instiintJons,  in  spite  of  the  spread  of  in- 
telligence, and  the  vast  power  of  knowledge  insisted  on  by 
the  public  journalist.  I could  not  concL^Ve  a set  of  men  or 
gentlemen,  of  mature  years,  if  not  aged,  enteiix^.^  themselves 
as  members  of  preparatory  schools  and  petty  semuxv>v|es  in 
defiance  of  shame,  humiliation,  and  the  contumely  of  a litera^-y 
age.  It  seemed  too  whimsical  to  contemplate  fathers,  and 
venerable  grandfathers,  emulating  the  infant  generation,  and 
seeking  for  instruction  in  the  rudiments.  My  imagination  re- 
fused to  picture  the  hoary  abecedarian, 

Witb  satchel  on  his  back,  and  shining  morning  face, 

Creeping,  like  snail,  unwillingly  to  school.” 

Fancy  grew  restive  at  a patriarchal  ignoramus  with  a fool’s 
cap,  and  a rod  thrust  down  his  bosom ; at  a palsied  truant 
dodging  the  palmy  inflictions  of  the  cane  ; or  a silver-headed 
dunce  horsed  on  a pair  of  rheumatic  shoulders  for  a paralytic 
flagellation.  The  picture,  notwithstanding,  is  realized ! El- 
derly people  seem  to  have  considered  that  they  will  be  as 
awkwardly  situated  in  the  other  world,  as  here,  without  their 
alphabet, — and  Schools  for  Grown  Persons  to  learn  to  read, 
are  no  more  Utopian  than  New  Harmony.  The  following 
letter  from  an  old  gentleman,  whose  education  had  been 
neglected,  confirms  me  in  the  fact.  It  is  copied,  verbatim  and 
literatim,  from  the  original,  which  fell  into  my  hands  by 
accident. 


Black  Heathy  November^  1827. 

Deer  Brother, 

My  honnerd  Parents  being  Both  desist  I 
feal  my  deuty  to  give  you  Sum  Acount  of  the  Proggress  I 
have  maid  in  my  studdys  since  last  Vocation.  You  will  be 


120 


A SCHOOL  FOR  ADULTS. 


gratefied  to  hear  I am  at  the  Hed  of  my  Class  and  Tom 
Hodges  is  at  its  Bottom,  tho  He  Seventy  last  Burth  Day 
and  I am  onely  going  oi>  Three  Shore.  I have  begun 
Gografy  and  do  ex«^s  on  the  Globs.  In  figgers  I am  all 
most  out  the  ^re  Simples  and  going  into  Compounds  next 
weak.  the  mean  time  hop  you  will  approve  my  Hand 
r2tmg  as  well  as  my  Speling  witch  I have  took  grate  panes 
with  as  you  desird.  As  for  the  French  Tung  Mr.  Legender 
says  I shall  soon  get  the  pronounci  ation  as  well  as  a Parishiner 
but  the  Master  thinks  its  not  advisible  to  begin  Lattin  at  my 
advanced  ears. 

With  respecks  to  my  Pearsonal  comfits  I am  verry  happy 
and  midling  Well  xcept  the  old  Cumplant  in  my  To — but  the 
Master  is  so  kind  as  to  let  me  have  a Cushin  for  my  feat.  If 
their  is  any  thing  to  cumplane  of  its  the  Vittles.  Our  Cook 
don’t  understand  Maid  dishes  her  Currys  is  xcrable.  Tom 
Hodges  Foot  Man  brings  him  evry  Day  soop  from  Birches. 
I wish  you  providid  me  the  same.  On  the  hole  I wish  on 
menny  Acounts  I was  a Day  border,  partickly  as  Barlow 
sleeps  in  our  Eoom  and  coffs  all  nite  long.  His  brother’s 
Ashmy  is  wus  than  his.  He  has  took  lately  to.  Snuff  and  I 
have  wishes  to  do  the  like.  Its  very  dull  after  Supper  since 
Mr.  Grierson  took  away  the  fellers  Pips,  and  forbid  Smock- 
ing, and  allmost  raized  a Riot  on  that  hed,  and  some  of  the 
Boys  was  to  have  Been  horst  for  it.  I am  happy  (to)  say  I 
have  never  been  floged  as  yet  and  onely  Caind  once  and  that 
was  for  damming  at  the  Cooks  chops  becous  they  was  so 
overdun,  but  there  was  to  have  been  fore  Wiped  yeaster  day 
for  Playing  Wist  in  skool  hours,  but  was  Begd  off  on  acounfe 
of  their  Lumbargo. 

I am  sorry  to  say  Ponder  has  had  another  Stroak  of  the 
perrylaticks  and  has  no  Use  of  his  Lims.  He  is  Parrs  fag — 
and  Parr  has  got  the  Roomytix  bysides  very  bad  but  luekly 


A SCHOOL  FOR  ADULTS, 


121 


its  oncly  stifTind  one  Arm  so  he  has  still  Hops  to  get  the  Star 
for  Heliocutioii.  Poor  Dick  Ojiribs  eye  site  has  quite  gone 
or  he  would  have  a good  chanee  for  the  Silvur  Pen. 

Mundy  was  one  of  the  Fellers  Burth  Days  and  we  was  to 
have  a hole  Holiday  but  he  dyed  sudnly  over  nite  of  the 
appoplxy  and  disappinted  us  verry  jnuch.  Two  moor  was 
fetcht  home  last  Weak  so  that  we  are  getting  very  thin  par- 
tickly  when  we  go  out  Wauking,  witch  is  seldom  more  than 
three  at  a time,  their  is  all  ways  so  menny  in  the  nursry.  I 
forgot  to  say  Garrat  run  off  a month  ago  he  got  verry  Home- 
sick ever  since  his  Grandchildren  cum  to  sea  him  at  skool, — 
Mr.  Grierson  has  expeld  him  for  running  away. 

On  Tuesday  a new  Schollard  cum.  He  is  a very  old 
crusty  Chap  and  not  much  lick’d  for  that  resin  by  the  rest  of 
the  Boys,  whom  all  Teas  him,  and  call  him  Plug  because  he 
is  a retired  Grosser.  Mr.  Grierson  declind  another  New  Boy 
because  he  hadn’t  had  the  Mizzles.  I have  red  Gays  Febbles 
and  the  other  books  You  were  so  kind  to  send  me — and 
would  be  glad  of  moor  partickly  the  Gentlemans  with  a 
Welsh  Whig  and  a Worming  Pan  when  you  fore  ward  my 
Closebox  with  my  clean  Lining — like  wise  sum  moor  Fleasy 
Hoshery  for  my  legs  and  the  Cardmums  I rit  for  with  the 
French  Grammer  dec.  Also  weather  I am  to  Dance  next 
quarter.  The  Gymnystacks  is  being  interdeuced  into  our 
Skool  but  is  so  Voilent  no  one  follows  them  but  Old  Parr  and 
He  cant  get  up  his  Pole. 

I have  no  more  to  write  but  hop  this  letter  will  find  you  as 
W ell  as  me ; Mr.  Grierson  is  in  Morning  for  Mr.  Luily 
Murry  of  whose  loss  you  have  herd  of — xcept  which  he  is  in 
Quite  good  Helth  and  desires  his  Respective  Complements 
with  witch  I remane  Your  deutiful  and 

loving  Brother 


6 


122 


A SCHOOL  FOR  ADULTS. 


S.  P.  Barlow  and  Phigg  have  just  had  a fite  in  the  Yard 
about  calling  names  and  Phigg  has  pegged  Barlows  tooth  out 
But  it  was  loose  before.  Mr.  G.  dont  alow  Puglism  if  he 
nose  it  among  the  Boys  as  at  their  Times  of  lifes  it  might  be 
fatle  partickly  from  pulling  their  Coats  of  in  the  open  Are. 

Our  new  Husher  is  cum  and  is  verry  well  Ked  in  his 
Mother’s  tung,  witch  is  the  mane  thing  with  Beginers  but  We 
wish  the  Frentch  Master  was  changed  on  account  of  his  Polly- 
ticks  and  Religun.  Brassbrige  and  him  is  always  Squabbling 
about  Bonny  party  and  the  Pop  of  Room.  Has  for  Barlow 
we  cant  tell  weather  He  is  Wig  or  Tory  for  he  cant  express 
his  Sentymints  for  Coding. 


“o!  there’s  nothinh  half  so  sweet  in  life.’ 


THE  DEMON-SHIP. 


123 


THE  FLYINH  DUTCHMAN. 


Stories  of  storm-ships  and  haunted  vessels,  of  spectre- 
shallops  and  supernatural  Dutch  doggers,  are  common  to 
many  countries,  and  are  well  attested  in  both  poetry  and 
prose.  The  adventures  of  Solway  sailors  with  Mahound,  in 
his  bottomless  barges,  and  the  careerings  of  the  phantom-ship 
up  and  down  the  Hudson,  have  hundreds  of  asserters  besides 
Messrs.  Cunningham  and  Crayon ; and  to  doubt  their  authen- 
ticity may  seem  like  an  imitation  of  the  desperate  sailing  of 
the  haunted  vessels  themselves  against  wind  and  tide.  I can- 
not help  fancying,  however,  that  Richard  Faulder  was  but  one 
of  those  tavern-dreamers  recorded  by  old  Heywood,  who 
conceived 


The  room  wherein  they  quaff'd  to  be  a pinnace." 


124 


THE  DEMON-SmP, 


And  as  for  the  Flying  Dutchman,  my  notion  is  very  different 
from  the  popular  conception  of  that  apparition,  as  I have  ven- 
tured to  show  by  the  above  design.  The  spectre-ship,  bound 
to  Dead  Man’s  Isle,  is  almost  as  awful  a craft  as  the  skeleton- 
bark  of  the  Ancient  Mariner ; but  they  are  both  fictions,  and 
have  not  the  advantage  of  being  realities,  like  the  dreary 
vessel  with  its  dreary  crew  in  the  following  story,  which 
records  an  adventure  that  befell  even  unto  myself. 

’Twas  off  the  Wash — the  sun  went  down — the  sea  look’d  black  and 
grim, 

For  stormy  clouds,  with  murky  fleece,  were  mustering  at  the 
brim ; 

Titanic  shades ! enormous  gloom  ! — as  if  the  solid  night 
Of  Erebus  rose  suddenly  to  seize  upon  the  light ! 

It  was  a time  for  mariners  to  bear  a wary  eye. 

With  such  a dark  conspiracy  between  the  sea  and  sky ! 


Down  went  my  helm — close  reef’d — the  tack  held  freely  in  my 
hand — 

With  ballast  snug — I put  about,  and  scudded  for  the  land. 

Loud  hiss’d  the  sea  beneath  her  lee — my  little  boat  flew  fast, 

But  faster  still  the  rushing  storm  came  borne  upon  the  blast. 

Lord ! what  a roaring  hurricane  beset  the  straining  sail ! 

What  furious  sleet,  with  level  drift,  and  fierce  assaults  of  hail ! 
What  darksome  caverns  yawn’d  before ! what  jagged  steeps  behind! 
Like  battle-steeds,  with  foamy  manes,  wild  tossing  in  the  wind. 
Each  after  each  sank  down  astern,  exhausted  in  the  chase. 

But  where  it  sank  another  rose  and  gallop’d  in  its  place ; 

As  black  as  night — they  turned  to  white,  and  cast  against  the  cloud 
A snowy  sheet,  as  if  each  surge  upturn’d  a sailor’s  shroud : — 

Still  flew  my  boat ; alas ! alas ! her  course  was  nearly  run ! 

Behold  yon  fatal  billow  rise — ten  billows  heap’d  in  one ! 

With  fearful  speed  the  dreary  mass  came  rolling,  rolling,  fast. 

As  if  the  scooping  sea  contain’d  one  only  wave  at  last ! 


Tm  DEMON-SHIP, 


125 


Still  on  it  came,  with  horrid  roar,  a swift  pursuing  grave ; 

It  seem’d  as  though  some  cloud  had  turn’d  its  hugeness  to  a wave  ? 
Its  briny  sleet  began  to  beat  beforehand  in  my  face — 

I felt  the  rearward  keel  begin  to  climb  its  swelling  base ! 

I saw  its  alpine  hoary  head  impending  over  mine ! 

Another  pulse — and  down  it  rush’d — an  avalanche  of  brine ! 

Brief  pause  had  I on  God  to  cry,  or  think  of  wife ‘an  d home ! 

The  waters  closed — and  when  I shriek’d,  I shriek’d  below  the 
foam ! 

Beyond  that  rush  I have  no  hint  of  any  after  deed. 

For  I was  tossing  on  the  waste,  as  senseless  as  a weed ! 

# ^ * 

‘‘  Where  am  I ? in  the  breathing  world,  or  in  the  world  of  death  ?” 
With  sharp  and  sudden  pang  I drew  another  birth  of  breath ; 

My  eyes  drank  in  a doubtful  light,  my  ears  a doubtful  sound — • 
And  was  that  ship  a real  ship  whose  tackle  seemed  around  ? 

A moon,  as  if  the  earthly  moon,  was  shining  up  aloft 

But  were  those  beams  the  very  beams  that  I had  seen  so  oft  ? 

A face,  that  mock’d  the  human  face,  before  me  watch’d  alone ; 

But  were  those  eyes  the  eyes  of  man  that  looked  against  my  own? 
Oh ! never  may  the  moon  again  disclose  me  such  a sight 
As  met  my  gaze,  when  first  I look’d,  on  that  accursed  night ! 

I’ve  seen  a thousand  horrid  shapes  begot  of  fierce  extremes 
Of  fever ; and  most  frightful  things  have  haunted  in  my  dreaijis — 
Hyenas — cats — blood-loving  bats — and  apes  with  hateful  stare — 
Pernicious  snakes,  and  shaggy  bulls — the  lion,  and  she-bear — 
Strong  enemies,  with  Judas  looks,  of  treachery  and  spite — 
Detested  features,  hardly  dimm’d  and  banish’d  by  the  light ! 
Pale-sheeted  ghosts,  with  gory  locks,  upstarting  from  their  tombs — • 
All  phantasies  and  images  that  flit  in  midnight  glooms — 

Hags,  goblins,  demons,  lemures,  have  made  me  all  aghast, — 

But  nothing  like  that  Grimly  One  who  stood  beside  the  mast! 

His  cheek  was  black — his  brow  was  black — liis  eyes  and  hair  as 
dark : 

His  hand  was  black,  and  where  it  touch’d,  it  left  a sable  mai-k ; 


126 


THE  DEMON-SHIP, 


His  tliroat  was  black,  his  vest  the  same,  and  when  I looked  beneath, 
His  breast  was  black — all,  all  was  black,  except  his  grinning  teeth. 
His  sooty  crew  were  like  in  hue,  as  black  as  Afric  slaves ! 

Oh,  horror ! e’en  the  ship  was  black  that  plough’d  the  inky  waves ! 

Alas !”  I cried,  ‘‘  for  love  of  truth  and  blessed  mercy’s  sake. 
Where  am  I ? in  what  dreadful  ship  ? upon  what  dreadful  lake  ? 
What  shape  is  that,  so  very  grim,  and  black  as  any  coal  ? 

It  is  Mahound,  the  Evil  One,  and  he  has  gain’d  my  soul ! 

Oh,  mother  dear ! my  tender  nurse ! dear  meadows  that  beguil’d 
My  happy  days,  when  I was  yet  a little  sinless  child, — 

My  mother  dear — my  native  fields,  I never  more  shall  see : 

I’m  sailing  in  the  Devil’s  Ship,  upon  the  Devil’s  Sea !” 

Loud  laugh’d  that  Sable  Mabineb,  and  loudly  in  return 

His  sooty  crew  sent  forth  a laugh  that  rang  from  stem  to  stern — 

A dozen  pair  of  grimly  cheeks  were  crumpled  on  the  nonce — 

As  many  sets  of  grinning  teeth  came  shining  out  at  once : 

A dozen  gloomy  shapes  at  once  enjoy’d  the  merry  fit, 

With  shriek  and  yell,  and  oaths  as  well.  Like  Demons  of  the  Pit. 
They  crow’d  their  fill,  and  then  the  Chief  made  answer  for  the 
whole  : — 

‘‘  Our  skins,”  said  he,  are  black,  ye  see,  because  we  carry  coal ; 
You’ll  find  your  mother  sure  enough,  and  see  your  native  fields — 
For  this  here  ship  has  picked  you  up — the  Mary  Ann  of  Shields !” 


EALLY  HOLT. 


127 


FANCY  portrait: — CAPTAIN  HEAD. 


f 0f  Iflin  f agtoft. 

Four  times  in  the  year — twice  at  the  season  of  the  half- 
yearly  dividends,  and  twice  at  the  intermediate  quarters, 
to  make  her  slender  investments — there  calls  at  my  Aunt 
Shakerly’s,  a very  plain,  very  demure  maiden,  about  forty, 
and  makes  her  way  downward  to  the  kitchen,  or  upward  to 
my  cousin’s  chamber,  as  may  happen.  Her  coming  is  not  to 
do  chair-work,  or  needle-work — to  tell  fortunes — to  beg,  steal, 
or  borrow.  She  does  not  come  for  old  clothes,  or  for  new. 
Her  simple  errand  is  love — pure,  strong,  disinterested,  endu- 
ring love,  passing  the  love  of  women — at  least  for  women. 

It  is  not  often  servitude  begets  much  kindliness  between 
the  two  relations;  hers,  however,  grew  from  that  ungenial 
soil.  For  the  whole  family  of  the  Shakerly’s  she  has  a strong 
feudal  attachment,  but  her  particular  regard  dwells  with 
Charlotte,  the  latest  born  of  the  clan.  Her  she  doats  upon — 
her  she  fondles — and  takes  upon  her  longing,  loving  lap. 


128 


SALLY  HOLT, 


O let  not  the  oblivious  attentions  of  the  worthy  Domine 
Sampson,  to  the  tall  boy  Bertram,  be  called  an  unnatural 
working ! I have  seen  my  cousin,  a good  feeder,  and  well 
grown  into  womanhood,  sitting — two  good  heads  taller  than 
her  dry-nurse — on  the  knees  of  the  simple-hearted  Sally 
Holt!  I have  seen  the  huge  presentation  orange,  unlapp’d 
from  the  homely  speckled  kerchief,  and  thrust  with  importu- 
nate tenderness  into  the  bashful  marriageable  hand. 

My  cousin’s  heart  is  not  so  artificially  composed,  as  to  let 
her  scorn  this  humble  affection,  though  she  is  puzzled  some- 
times with  what  kind  of  look  to  receive  these  honest  but  awk- 
ward endearments,  I have  seen  her  face  quivering  with  half 
a laugh. 

It  is  one  of  Sally’s  staple  hopes,  that,  some  day  or  other, 
when  Miss  Charlotte  keeps  house,  she  will  live  with  her  as  a 
servant : and  this  expectation  makes  her  particular  and 
earnest  to  a fault  in  her  inquiries  about  sweethearts,  and  offers, 
and  the  matrimonial  chances  : questions  which  1 have  seen  my 
cousin  listen  to  with  half  a cry. 

Perhaps  Sally  looks  upon  this  confidence  as  her  right,  in  re- 
turn for  those  secrets  which,  by  joint  force  of  ignorance  and 
affection,  she  could  not  help  reposing  in  the  bosom  of  her 
foster-mistress.  Nature,  unkind  to  her,  as  to  Dogberry, 
denied  to  her  that  knowledge  of  reading  and  writing  which 
comes  to  some  by  instinct.  A strong  principle  of  religion 
made  it  a darling  point  with  her  to  learn  to  read,  that  she 
might  study  in  her  Bible : but  in  spite  of  all  the  help  of  my 
cousin,  and  as  ardent  a desire  for  learning  as  ever  dwelt  in 
scholar,  poor  Sally  never  mastered  beyond  A-B-ab.  Her  mind, 
simple  as  her  heart,  was  unequal  to  any  more  difficult  com- 
binations. Writing  was  worse  to  her  than  conjuring.  My 
cousin  was  her  amanuensis:  and  from  the  vague,  unaccount- 
able mistrust  of  ignorance,  the  inditer  took  the  pains  always 


SALLY  HOLT 


129 


to  compare  the  verbal  message  with  the  transcript,  by  counts 
ing  the  number  of  the  words. 

I would  give  up  all  the  tender  epistles  of  Mrs.  Arthur 
Brooke,  to  have  read  one  of  Sally’s  epistles;  but  they  were 
amatory,  and  therefore  kept  sacred : for  plain  as  she  was, 
Sally  Holt  had  a lover. 

There  is  an  unpretending  plainness  in  some  faces  that  has  its 
charm — an  unaffected  ugliness,  a thousand  times  more  be- 
witching than  those  would-be  pretty  looks  that  neither  satisfy 
the  critical  sense,  nor  leave  the  matter  of  beauty  at  once  to 
the  imagination.  We  like  better  to  make  a new  face  than  to 
mend  an  old  one.  Sally  had  not  one  good  feature,  except 
those  which  John  Hayloft  made  for  her  in  his  dreams ; and  to 
judge  from  one  token,  her  partial  fancy  was  equally  answer- 
able  for  his  charms.  One  precious  lock — no,  not  a lock,  but 
rather  a remnant  of  very  short,  very  coarse,  very  yellow  hair, 
the  clippings  of  a military  crop,  for  John  was  a corporal — stood 
the  foremost  item  amongst  her  treasures.  To  her  they  were 
curls,  golden,  Hyperion,  and  cherished  long  after  the  parent- 
head  was  laid  low,  with  many  more,  on  the  bloody  plain  of 
Salamanca. 

I remember  vividly  at  this  moment  the  ecstasy  of  her  grief 
at  the  receipt  of  the  fatal  news.  She  was  standing  near  the 
dresser  with  a dish,  just  cleaned,  in  her  dexter  hand.  Ninety- 
nine  women  in  a hundred  would  have  dropped  the  dish.  Many 
would  have  flung  themselves  after  it  on  the  floor  ; but  Sally 
put  it  up,  orderly,  on  the  shelf.  The  fall  of  John  Hayloft 
could  not  induce  the  fall  of  the  crockery.  She  felt  the  blow 
notwithstanding ; and  as  soon  as  she  had  emptied  her  hands, 
began  to  give  way  to  her  emotions  in  her  own  manner.  Af- 
fliction vents  itself  in  various  modes,  with  different  tempera- 
ments : some  rage,  others  compose  themselves  like  monu- 
ments. Some  weep,  some  sleep,  some  prose  about  death,  and 


130 


SALLY  HOLT, 


others  poetize  on  it.  Many  take  to  a bottle,  or  to  a rope. 
Some  go  to  Margate,  or  Bath. 

Sally  did  nothing  of  these  kinds.  She  neither  snivelled, 
travelled,  sickened,  maddened,  nor  ranted,  nor  canted,  nor 
hung,  nor  fuddled  herself— only  rocked  herself  upon  the 
kitchen  chair  ! ! 

The  action  was  not  adequate  to  her  relief.  She  got  up — 
took  a fresh  chair — then  another — and  another — and  another, 
— till  she  had  rocked^  on  all  the  chairs  in  the  kitchen. 

The  thing  was  tickling  to  both  sympathies.  It  was  patheti- 
cal  to  behold  her  grief,  but  ludicrous  that  she  knew  no  better 
how  to  grieve. 

An  American  might  have  thought  that  she  was  in  the  act  of 
enjoyment,  but  for  an  intermitting  O dear ! O dear  ! Passion 
could  not  wring  more  from  her  in  the  way  of  exclamation 
than  the  toothache.  Her  lamentations  were  always  the  same 
even  in  tone.  By  and  by  she  pulled  out  the  hair — the  cropped, 
yellow,  stunted,  scrubby  hair ; then  she  fell  to  rocking — then 
O dear!  O dear! — and  then  Da  Capo. 

It  was  an  odd  sort  of  elegy,  and  yet,  simple  as  it  was,  I 
thought  it  worth  a thousand  of  Lord  Littleton’s  ! 

“ Heyday,  Sally  ! what  is  the  matter was  a very  natural 
inquiry  from  my  Aunt,  when  she  came  down  into  the  kitchen ; 
and  if  she  did  not  make  it  with  her  tongue,  at  least  it  was 
asked  very  intelligibly  by  her  eyes.  Now  Sally  had  but  one 
way  of  addressing  her  mistress,  and  she  used  it  here.  It  was 
the  same  with  which  she  would  have  asked  for  a holiday,  ex- 
cept that  the  waters  stood  in  her  eyes. 

“ If  you  please,  Ma’am,”  said  she,  rising  up  from  her  chair 
and  dropping  her  old  curtsey,  “ if  you  please.  Ma’am,  it’s  John 
Hayloft  is  dead and  then  she  began  rocking  again,  as  if 
grief  was  a baby  that  wanted  jogging  to  sleep. 

My  Aunt  was  posed.  She  would  fain  have  comforted  the 


SALLY  HOLT. 


131 


mourner,  but  her  mode  of  grieving  was  so  out  of  the  common 
way,  that  she  did  not  know  how  to  begin.  To  the  violent  she 
might  have  brought  soothing ; to  the  desponding,  texts  of  pa- 
tience and  resignation ; to  the  hysterical,  sal  volatile  ; she 
might  have  asked  the  sentimental  for  th^  story  of  her  woes. 
A good  scolding  is  useful  with  some  sluggish  griefs : — in  some 
cases  a cordial.  In  others — a job. 

If  Sally  had  only  screamed,  or  bellowed,  or  fainted,  or  gone 
stupified,  or  raved,  or  said  a collect,  or  moped  about,  it  would 
have  been  easy  to  deal  with  her.  But  with  a woman  that 
only  rocked  on  her  chair — 

What  the  devil  could  my  Aunt  do  % — 

Why,  nothing  :^and  she  did  it  as  well  as  she  could. 


PONY-ATOWSKI. 


132 


A TRUE  STORY. 


% ®rae  Storg. 

AF  all  our  pains,  since  man  was  curst, 
^ I mean  of  body,  not  the  mental, 

To  name  the  worst,  among  the  worst, 
The  dental  sure  is  transcendental  j 
Some  bit  of  masticating  bone, 

That  ought  to  help  to  clear  a shelf, 

But  let  its  proper  work  alone. 

And  only  seems  to  gnaw  itself; 

In  fact,  of  any  grave  attack 
On  victuals  there  is  little  danger, 

’Tis  so  like  coming  to  the  rach^ 

As  well  as  going  to  the  manger. 

Old  Hunks — it  seem’d  a fit  retort 
Of  justice  on  his  grinding  ways — 
Possess’d  a grinder  of  the  sort, 

That  troubled  all  his  latter  days. 

The  best  of  friends  fall  out,  and  so 
His  teeth  had  done  some  years  ago. 


A TRUE  STORY, 


33 


Save  some  old  stumps  with  ragged  root, 
And  they  took  turn  about  to  shoot  j 
If  he  drank  any  chilly  liquor, 

They  made  it  quite  a point  to  throb ; 

But  if  he  warm’d  it  on  the  hob, 

Why  then  they  only  twitch’d  the  quicker. 

One  tooth — I wonder  such  a tooth 
Had  never  kill’d  him  in  his  youth — 

One  tooth  he  had  with  many  fangs, 

That  shot  at  once  as  many  pangs, 

It  had  an  universal  sting ; 

One  touch  of  that  extatic  stump 
Could  jerk  his  limbs,  and  make  him  jump, 
Just  like  a puppet  on  a string ; 

And  what  was  worse  than  all,  it  had 
A way  of  making  others  had. 

There  is,  as  many  know,  a knack, 

With  certain  farming  undertakers. 

And  this  same  tooth  pursued  their  track. 
By  adding  ackers  still  to  ackers  ! 

One  way  there  is,  that  has  been  judg’d 
A certain  cure,  hut  Hunks  was  loth 
To  pay  the  fee,  and  quite  begrudg’d 
To  lose  his  tooth  and  money  both; 

In  fact,  a dentist  and  the  wheel 
Of  Fortune  are  a kindred  cast, 

For  after  all  is  drawn,  you  feel 
Its  paying  for  a blank  at  last ; 

So  Hunks  went  on  from  week  to  week, 
And  kept  his  torment  in  his  cheek ; 

Oh ! how  it  sometimes  set  him  rocking, 
With  that  perpetual  gnaw — gnaw — gnaw, 
His  moans  and  groans  were  truly  shocking 
And  loud — altho’  he  held  his  jaw. 


134 


A TRUE  STORY, 


Many  a tug  he  gave  his  gum, 

And  tooth,  but  still  it  would  not  come, 

Tho’  tied  by  string  to  some  firm  thing, 

He  could  not  draw  it,  do  his  best. 

By  draw’rs,  altho’  he  tried  a chest. 

At  last,  hut  after  much  debating. 

He  joined  a score  of  mouths  in  waiting, 

Like  his,  to  have  their  troubles  out. 

Sad  sight  it  was  to  look  about 
At  twenty  faces  making  faces. 

With  many  a rampant  trick  and  antic, 

For  all  were  very  horrid  cases. 

And  made  their  owners  nearly  frantic. 

A little  ticket  now  and  then 
Took  one  of  these  unhappy  men. 

And  out  again  the  victim  rush’d. 

While  eyes  and  mouth  together  gush’d  j 
At  last  arriv’d  our  hero’s  turn. 

Who  plunged  his  hands  in  both  his  pockets, 

And  down*  he  sat  prepar’d  to  learn 

How  teeth  are  charm’d  to  quit  their  sockets. 

Those  who  have  felt  such  operations, 

Alone  can  guess  the  sort  of  ache. 

When  his  old  tooth  began  to  break 
The  thread  of  old  associations ; 

It  touch’d  a string  in  every  part, 

It  had  so  many  tender  ties ; 

One  chord  seem’d  wrenching  at  his  heart, 
And  two  were  tunging  at  his  eyes ; 

“ Bone  of  his  bone,”  he  felt  of  course, 

As  husbands  do  in  such  divorce ; 

At  last  the  fangs  gave  way  a little. 

Hunks  gave  his  head  a backward  jerk. 

And  lo ! the  cause  of  all  this  work. 

Went — where  it  used  to  send  his  victual ! 


A TRUE  STORY, 


135 


The  monstrous  pain  of  this  proceeding 
Had  not  so  numb’d  his  miser  wit, 

But  in  this  slip  he  saw  a hit 

To  save,  at  least,  his  purse  from  bleeding ; 

So  when  the  dentist  sought  his  fees. 

Quoth  Hunks,  “ Let’s  finish,  if  you  please.” 

‘‘  How,  finish ! why  it’s  out !” — “ Oh ! no— 
I’m  none  of  your  beforehand  tippers, 

’Tis  you  are  out,  to  argue  so ; 

My  tooth  is  in  my  head  no  doubt. 

But  as  you  say  you  pull’d  it  out. 

Of  course  it’s  there — between  your  nippers.” 
“ Zounds  ! sir,  d’ye  think  I’d  sell  the  truth 
To  get  a fee  ? no,  wretch,  I scorn  it.” 

But  Hunks  still  ask’d  to  see  the  tooth. 

And  swore  by  gum ! he  had  not  drawn  it. 
His  end  obtain’d,  he  took  his  leave, 

A secret  chuckle  in  his  sleeve ; 

The  joke  was  worthy  to  produce  one, 

To  think,  by  favour  of  his  wit. 

How  well  a dentist  had  been  bit 
By  one  old  stump,  and  that  a loose  one ! 

The  thing  was  worth  a laugh,  but  mirth 
Is  still  the  frailest  thing  on  earth : 

Alas ! how  often  when  a joke 
Seems  in  our  sleeve,  and  safe  enough. 

There  comes  some  unexpected  stroke. 

And  hangs  a weeper  on  the  cuff! 

Hunks  had  not  whistled  half  a mile. 

When,  planted  right  against  a stile. 

There  stood  his  foeman,  Mike  Mahoney, 

A vagrant  reaper,  Irish-born, 

That  help’d  to  reap  our  miser’s  corn, 

But  had  not  help’d  to  reap  his  money, 

A fact  that  Hunks  remembered  quickly ; 


136 


A TRUE  STORY, 


His  whistle  all  at  once  was  quelFd, 

And  when  he  saw  how  Michael  held 
His  sickle,  he  felt  rather  sickly. 

Nine  souls  in  ten,  with  half  his  fright. 

Would  soon  have  paid  the  bill  at  sight, 

But  misers  (let  observers  watch  it) 

Will  never  part  with  their  delight 
Till  well  demanded  by  a hatchet — 

They  live  hard — and  they  die  to  match  it. 
Thus  Hunks  prepar’d  for  Mike’s  attacking, 
Resolv’d  not  yet  to  pay  the  debt. 

But  let  him  take  it  out  in  hacking; 

However,  Mike  began  to  stickle 
In  word  before  he  used  the  sickle ; 

But  mercy  was  not  long  attendant : 

From  words  at  last  he  took  to  blows 
And  aim’d  a cut  at  Hunks’s  nose ; 

That  made  it  w^hat  some  folks  are  not — 

A member  very  independent. 

Heaven  knows  how  far  this  cruel  trick 
Might  still  have  led,  but  for  a tramper 
That  came  in  danger’s  very  nick. 

To  put  Mahoney  to  the  scamper. 

But  still  compassion  met  a damper ; 

There  lay  the  sever’d  nose,  alas ! 

Beside  the  daisies  on  the  grass, 

“ Wee,  crimson -tip t”  as  well  as  they. 
According  to  the  poet’s  lay  : 

And  there  stood  Hunks,  no  sight  for  laughter ! 
Away  ran  Hodge  to  get  assistance. 

With  nose  in  hand,  which  Hunks  ran  after, 
But  somewhat  at  unusual  distance. 

In  many  a little  country  place 
It  is  a very  common  case 
To  have  but  one  residing  doctor, 


A TRUE  STORY. 


137' 


Whose  practice  rather  seems  to  be 
No  practice,  but  a rule  of  three, 

Physician — surgeon — drug-decocter ; 

Thus  Hunks  was  forc’d  to  go  once  more 
Where  he*  had  ta’en  his  tooth  before. 

His  mere  name  made  the  team’d  man  hot, — 

‘‘  What ! Hunks  again  within  my  door ! 

I’ll  pull  his  nose quoth  Hunks,  ‘‘You  cannot.” 

The  doctor  look’d  and  saw  the  case 
Plain  as  the  nose  not  on  his  face. 

“ O ! hum — ha — yes — I understand.” 

But  then  arose  a long  demur. 

For  not  a finger  would  he  stir 
Till  he  w^as  paid  his  fee  in  hand ; 

That  matter  settled,  there  they  w^ere, 

With  Hunks  well  strapp’d  upon  his  chair. 

The  opening  of  a surgeon’s  job — 

His  tools,  a chestful  or  a drawerful — 

Are  always  something  very  awful, 

And  give  the  heart  the  strangest  throb ; 

But  never  patient  in  his  funks 
Look’d  half  so  like  a ghost  as  Hunks, 

Or  surgeon  half  so  like  a devil 
Prepar’d  for  some  infernal  revel : 

His  huge  black  eye  kept  rolling,  rolling. 

Just  like  a bolus  in  a box, 

His  fury  seem’d  above  controlling. 

He  bellow’d  like  a hunted  ox : 

“ Now,  swindling  wretch.  I’ll  show  thee  how 
We  treat  such  cheating  knaves  as  thou ; 

Oh ! sweet  is  this  revenge  to  sup ; 

I have  thee  by  the  nose — it’s  now 
My  turn — and  I will  turn  it  up.” 

Guess  how  the  miser  lik’d  the  scurvy 
And  cruel  way  of  venting  passion ; 


138 


A TRUE  STORY. 


The  snubbing  folks  in  this  new  fashion 
Seem’d  quite  to  turn  him  topsy  turvy ; 

He  utter’d  pray’rs,  and  groans,  and  curses, 

For  things  had  often  gone  amiss 
And  wrong  with  him  before,  but  this 
Would  be  the  worst  of  all  reverses  ! 

In  fancy  he  beheld  his  snout 
Turn’d  upward  like  a pitcher’s  spout ; 

There  was  another  grievance  yet, 

And  fancy  did  not  fail  to  show  it, 

That  he  must  throw  a summerset, 

Or  stand  upon  his  head  to  blow  it. 

And  was  there  then  no  argument 
To  change  the  doctor’s  vile  intent, 

And  move  his  pity  ? — yes,  in  truth. 

And  that  was — paying  for  the  tooth. 

“ Zounds ! pay  for  such  a stump ! I’d  rather — ” 
But  here  the  menace  went  no  farther, 

For  with  his  other  ways  of  pinching. 

Hunks  had  a miser’s  love  of  snuff, 

A recollection  strong  enough 
To  cause  a very  serious  flinching ; 

In  short,  he  paid  and  had  the  feature 
Replac’d  as  it  was  meant  by  nature ; 

For  tho’  by  this  ’twas  cold  to  handle, 

(No  corpse’s  could  have  felt  more  horrid,) 

And  white  just  like  an  end  of  candle. 

The  doctor  deem’d  and  prov’d  it  too. 

That  noses  from  the  nose  will  do 
As  well  as  noses  from  the  forehead ; 

So,  fix’d  by  dint  of  rag  and  lint. 

The  part  was  bandag’d  up  and  muffled. 

The  chair  unfasten’d.  Hunks  arose. 

And  shuffled  out,  for  once  unshuffled ; 

And  as  he  went  these  words  he  snuffled — 

“ Well,  this  is  ‘ paying  through  the  nose.’  ” 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MRS,  STIAKERLY, 


139 


Towards  the  dose  of  her  life,  my  Aunt  Shakerly  in- 
creased rapidly  in  bulk : she  kept  adding  growth  unto  her 
growth, 

Giving  a sum  of  more  to  that  whicli  had  too  much,’^ 

till  the  result  was  worthy  of  a Smithfield  premium.  It  was 
not  the  triumph,  however,  of  any  systematic  diet  for  the 
promotion  of  fat, — (except  oyster-eating  there  is  no  human 
system  of  sfaZZ-feeding,) — on  the  contrary,  she  lived  abstemi- 
ously, diluting  her  food  with  pickle-acids,  and  keeping  frequent 
fasts,  in  order  to  reduce  her  compass  ; but  they  failed  of  this 
desirable  effect.  Nature  had  planned  an  original  tendency  in 


140 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MRS,  SHAKE  ELY. 


her  organization  that  was  not  to  he  overcome : — she  would 
have  fattened  on  sourkrout. 

My  uncle,  on  the  other  hand,  decreased  daily  ; originally  a 
little  man,  he  became  lean,  shrunken,  wizened.  There  was  a 
predisposition  in  his  constitution  that  made  him  spare,  and 
kept  him  so : — he  would  have  fallen  off  even  on  brewers’ 
grains. 

It  was  the  common  joke  of  the  neighbourhood  to  designate 
my  aunt,  my  uncle,  and  the  infant  Shakerly,  as  “ Wholesale, 
Eetail,  and  For  Exportation;”  and,  in  truth,  they  were  not 
inapt  impersonations  of  that  popular  inscription, — my  aunt  a 
giantess,  my  uncle  a pigmy,  and  the  child  being  “carried 
abroad.” 

Alas  ! of  the  three  departments,  nothing  now  remains  but 
the  Retail  portion — my  uncle,  a pennyworth,  a mere  sample. 

It  is  upon  record,  that  Dr.  Watts,  though  a puny  man  in 
person,  took  a fancy,  towards  his  latter  days,  that  he  was  too 
large  to  pass  through  a door — an  error  which  Death  shortly 
corrected  by  taking  him  through  his  own  portal.  My  un- 
happy  aunt,  with  more  show  of  reason,  indulged  in  a similar 
delusion  ; she  conceived  herself  to  have  grown  inconveniently 

cumbersome  for  the  small  village  of  , and  my 

uncle,  to  quiet  her,  removed  to  the  metropolis.  There  she 
lived  for  some  months  in  comparative  ease,  till  at  last  an 
unlucky  event  recalled  all  her  former  inquietude.  The  Ele- 
phant of  Mr.  Cross,  a good  feeder,  and  with  a natural  ten- 
dency to  corpulence,  throve  so  well  on  his  rations,  that, 
becoming  too  huge  for  his  den,  he  was  obliged  to  be  des- 
patched. My  aunt  read  the  account  in  the  newspapers,  and 
the  catastrophe  with  its  cause  took  possession  of  her  mind. 
She  seemed  to  herself  as  that  Elephant.  An  intolerable 
sense  of  confinement  and  oppression  haunted  her  by  day  and 
in  her  dreams.  First  she  had  a tightness  at  her  chest,  then  in 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MRS.  SIIAKERLY. 


141 


her  limbKS,  then  all  over ; she  felt  too  big  for  her  chair — then 
for  her  bed — then  for  her  room — then  for  the  house ! To 
divert  her  thoughts  my  uncle  proposed  to  go  to  Paris ; but 
she  was  too  huge  for  a boat — for  a barge — for  a packet — for 
a frigate — for  a country — for  a continent ! “ She  was  too  big,” 
she  said,  “ for  this  world — but  she  was  going  to  one  that  is 
boundless.” 

Nothing  could  wean  her  from  this  belief : her  whole  talk 
was  of  “ cumber  grounds of  the  “ burthen  of  the  flesh  :” 
and  of  “ infinity.”  Sometimes  her  head  wandered,  and  she 
would  then  speak  of  disposing  of  the  “ bulk  of  her  personals.” 

In  the  mean  time  her  health  decayed  slowly,  but  percep- 
tibly : she  was  dying,  the  doctor  said  that,  by  inches. 

Now  my  uncle  was  a kind  husband,  and  meant  tenderly, 
though  it  sounded  untender : but  when  the  doctor  said,  she 
was  dying  by  inches — 

“ God  forbid  1”  cried  my  uncle : “ consider  what  a great 
big  creature  she  is  I” 


142 


. THE  MONKEY-MARTYR, 


BRUTE  EMANCIPATION. 


A FABLE. 

God  help  thee,  said  I,  but  I’ll  let  thee  out,  cost  what  it  will : so 
turned  about  the  cage  to  get  to  the  door.” — Sterne. 

’rpiS  strange,  what  awkward  figures  and  odd  capers 
Folks  cut,  who  seek  their  doctrine  from  the  papers; 
But  there  are  many  shallow  politicians 
Who  take  their  bias  from  bewilder’d  journals — 

Turn  state-physicians, 

And  make  themselves  fools’-caps  of  the  diurnals. 

One  of  this  kind,  not  human,  but  a monkey, 

Had  read  himself  at  last  to  this  sour  creed — 

That  he  was  nothing  but  Oppression’s  flunkey, 

And  man  a tyrant  over  all  his  breed. 

He  could  not  read 


THE  MONKEY-MARTYR. 


143 


Of  niggers  wliipt,  or  over-trampled  weavers, 

But  he  applied  their  wrongs  to  his  own  seed, 

And  noui’ish^d  thoughts  that  threw  him  into  fevers. 
His  very  dreams  were  full  of  martial  beavers, 

And  drilling  Pugs,  for  liberty  pugnacious, 

To  sever  chains  vexatious : 

In  fact,  he  thought  that  all  his  injured  line 
Should  take  up  pikes  in  hand,  and  never  drop  ’em 
Till  they  had  clear’d  a road  to  Freedom’s  shrine, — 
Unless  perchance  the  turnpike  men  should  stop  ’em. 

Full  of  this  rancour. 

Pacing  one  day  neside  St.  Clement  Danes, 

It  came  into  his  brains 
To  give  a look  in  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor  j 
Where  certain  solemn  sages  of  the  nation 
Were  at  that  moment  in  deliberation 
How  to  relieve  the  wide  world  of  its  chains, 

Pluck  despots  down, 

And  thereby  crown 

Whitee-  as  well  as  blackee-man-cipation. 

Pug  heard  the  speeches  with  great  approbation. 

And  gaz’d  with  pride  upon  the  Liberators ; 

To  see  mere  coal-heavers 
Such  perfect  Bolivars — 

Waiters  of  inns  sublim’d  to  innovators, 

And  slaters  dignified  as  legislators — 

Small  publicans  demanding  (such  their  high  sense 
Of  liberty)  an  universal  license — 

And  patten-makers  easing  Freedom’s  clogs — 

The  whole  thing  seem’d 
So  fine,  he  deem’d 

The  smallest  demagogues  as  great  as  Gogs ! 

Pug,  with  some  curious  notions  in  his  noddle. 
Walk’d  out  at  last,  and  turn’d  into  the  Strand, 

To  the  left  hand, 


144 


THE  MONKEY-MARTYR, 


Conning  some  portion  of  the  previous  twaddle, 
And  striding  with  a step  that  seemed  design’d 
To  represent  the  mighty  March  of  Mind, 

Instead  of  that  slow  waddle 
Of  thought,  to  which  our  ancestors  inclin’d — 

No  wonder,  then,  that  he  should  quickly  find 
He  stood  in  front  of  that  intrusive  pile. 

Where  Cross  keeps  many  a kind 
Of  bird  confin’d. 

And  free-born  animal,  in  durance  vile — ■ 

A thought  that  stirr’d  up  all  the  monkey-bile ! 

The  window  stood  ajar — 

It  was  not  far. 

Nor,  like  Parnassus,  very  hard  to  climb — 

The  hour  was  verging  on  the  supper-time. 

And  many  a growl  was  sent  through  many  a bar. 
Meanwhile  Pug  scrambled  upward  like  a tar, 

And  soon  crept  in. 

Unnotic’d  in  the  din 

Of  tuneless  throats,  that  made  the  attics  ring 
With  all  the  harshest  notes  that  they  could  bring 
Por  like  the  Jews, 

Wild  beasts  refuse 
In  midst  of  their  captivity — to  sing. 

Lord ! how  it  made  him  chafe, 

Full  of  his  new  emancipating  zeal. 

To  look  around  upon  this  brute-bastille. 

And  see  the  king  of  creatures  in — a safe ! 

The  desert’s  denizen  in  one  small  den. 
Swallowing  slavery’s  most  bitter  pills — 

A bear  in  bars  unbearable.  And  then 
The  fretful  porcupine,  with  all  its  quills, 
Imprison’d  in  a pen ! 

A tiger  limited  to  four  feet  ten  j 


THE  MONKEY-MABTYR. 


145 


And,  still  worse  lot, 

A leopard  to  one  spot, 

An  elephant  enlarg’d, 

But  not  discharg’d; 

(It  was  before  the  elephant  was  shot ;) 

A doleful  wanderow,  that  wandered  not ; 

An  ounce  much  disproportion ’d  to  his  pound. 

Pug’s  wrath  wax’d  hot 
To  gaze  upon  these  captive  creatures  round ; 

Whose  claws — all  scratching — gave  him  full  assurance 
They  found  their  durance  vile  of  vile  endurance. 

He  went  above — a solitary  mounter 
Up  gloomy  stairs — and  saw  a pensive  group 
Of  hapless  fowls — • 

Cranes,  vultures,  owls. 

In  fact,  it  was  a sort  of  Poultry-Compter, 

Where  feather’d  prisoners  were  doom’d  to  droop  : 

Here  sat  an  eagle,  forc’d  to  make  a stoop. 

Not  from  the  skies,  hut  his  impending  roof ; 

And  there  aloof, 

A pining  ostrich,  moping  in  a coop ; 

With  other  samples  of  the  bird  creation. 

All  cag’d  against  their  powers  and  their  wills. 

And  cramp’d  in  such  a space,  the  longest  bills 
Were  plainly  bills  of  least  accommodation. 

In  truth,  it  was  a very  ugly  scene 
To  fall  to  any  liberator’s  share. 

To  see  those  winged  fowls,  that  once  had  been 
Free  as  the  wind,  no  freer  than  fix’d  air. 

His  temper  little  mended. 

Pug  from  this  Bird-cage  Walk  at  last  descended 
Unto  the  lion  and  the  elephant. 

His  bosom  in  a pant 

To  see  all  natm’e’s  Free  list  thus  suspended, 

And  beasts  depriv’d  of  what  she  had  intended. 

7 


14G 


THE  MONKEY^MABTYE, 

They  could  not  even  prey 
In  their  own  way ; 

A hardship  always  reckon’d  quite  prodigious. 

Thus  he  revolv’d — 

And  soon  resolv’d 

To  give  them  freedom,  civil  and  religious. 

That  night,  there  were  no  country  cousins,  raw 
From  Wales  to  view  the  lion  and  his  kin  : 

The  keeper’s  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a saw ; 

The  saw  was  fixed  upon  a bullock’s  shin  : 

Meanwhile  with  stealthy  paw, 

Pug  hastened  to  withdraw 
The  bolt  that  kept  the  king  of  brutes  within. 

Now,  monarch  of  the  forest ! thou  shalt  win 
Precious  enfranchisement — thy  bolts  are  undone  j 
Thou  art  no  longer  a degraded  creature. 

But  loose  to  roam  with  liberty  and  nature ; 

And  free  of  all  the  jungles  about  London — 

All  Hampstead’s  heathy  desert  lies  before  thee ! 

Me  thinks  I see  thee  bound  from  Cross’s  ark. 

Full  of  the  native  instinct  that  comes  o’er  thee. 

And  turn  a ranger 

Of  Hounslow  Forest,  and  the  Regent’s  Park — 

Thin  Rhodes’s  cows — the  mail-coach  steeds  endanger — 
And  gobble  parish  watchmen  after  dark : — 

Methinks  I see  thee,  with  the  early  lark, 

Stealing  to  Merlin’s  cave — {thy  cave) — Alas, 

That  such  bright  visions  should  not  come  to  pass ! 

Alas  for  freedom,  and  for  freedom’s  hero ! 

Alas,  for  liberty  of  life  and  limb ! 

For  Pug  had  only  half  unbolted  Nero, 

When  Nero  hotted  hhn  ! 


BANDITTI 


147 


OF  all  the  Saints  in  the  Calendar,  none  has  suffered  less 
from  the  Reformation  than  St.  Cecilia,  the  great  patroness 
of  Music.  Lofty  and  lowly  are  her  votaries — many  and  mag- 
nificent are  her  holiday  festivals — and  her  common  service  is 
performing  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  She  has  not  only  her 
regular  high-priests  and  priestesses;  but,  like  the  Wesleyans, 
her  itinerants  and  street-missionaries,  to  make  known  her 
worship  in  the  highways  and  in  the  byways.  Nor  is  the 
homage  confined  to  the  people  of  one  creed ; — the  Protestant 
exalts  her  on  his  barrel-organ — the  Catholic  with  her  tambou- 
rine— the  wandering  Jew  with  his  Pan’s-pipe  and  double- 
drum. The  preceding  group  was  sketched  from  a company 
of  these  “ Strolling  Players.” 

It  must  be  confessed  that  their  service  is  sometimes  of  a 
kind  rather  to  drive  angels  higher  into  heaven,  than  to  entice 


148 


BANDITTI, 


them  earthward ; and  there  are  certain  retired  streets — near 
the  Adelphi,  for  instance — where  such  half-hourly  deductions 
from  the  natural  quiet  of  the  situation  should  justly  be  con- 
sidered in  the  rent.  Some  of  the  choruses,  in  truth,  are 
beyond  any  but  a saintly  endurance.  Conceive  a brace  of  op- 
position organs,  a fife,  two  hurdy-gurdies,  a clarionet,  and  a 
quartette  of  decayed  mariners,  all  clubbing  their  music  in 
common,  on  the  very  principle  of  Mr.  Owen’s  New  Har- 
mony ! 

In  the  Journal  of  a recent  Traveller  through  the  Papal 
States,  there  is  an  account  of  an  adventure  with  Neapolitan 
robbers,  that  would  serve,  with  very  slight  alterations,  for  the 
description  of  an  encounter  with  our  own  banditti. 

“ To-day,  Mrs.  Graham  and  I mounted  our  horses  and  rode 
towards  Islington.  W e had  not  proceeded  far,  when  we  heard 
sounds  as  of  screaming  and  groaning,  and  presently  a group  of 
men  appeared  at  a turn  of  the  road.  It  was  too  certain  that 
we  had  fallen  in  with  one  of  these  roving  bands.  Escape  was 
impossible,  as  they  extended  across  the  road.  Their  leader 
was  the  celebrated  Flanigan,  notorious  for  his  murder  of  Fair 
Ellen,  and  the  Bewildered  Maid.  One  of  the  fellows  advanced 
close  up  to  Mrs.  G.,  and  putting  his  instrument  to  her  ear, 
threatened  to  blow  out  her  brains.  We  gave  them  what 
coppers  we  had,  and  were  allowed  to  proceed.  We  were  in- 
formed by  the  country-people,  that  a gentlewoman  and  her 
daughter  had  been  detained  by  them,  near  the  same  spot,  and 
robbed  of  their  hearings,  with  circumstances  of  great  barbarity ; 
Flanigan,  in  the  mean  time,  standing  by  with  his  pipe  in  his 
mouth ! 

Innumerable  other  travellers  have  been  stopped  and  tor- 
tured by  these  wretches,  till  they  gave  up  their  money : and 
yet  these  excesses  are  winked  at  by  the  police.  In  the  mean 
time,  the  government  does  not  interfere,  in  the  hope,  perhaps, 


BANDITTI.  140 

that  some  day  these  gangs  may  be  broken  up,  and  separated, 
by  discord  amongst  themselves.” 

Sometimes,  to  the  eye  of  fancy,  these  wandering  minstrels 
assume  another  character,  and  illustrate  Collins’s  Ode  on  the 
Passions,  in  a way  that  might  edify  Miss  Macauley.  First, 
Fear,  a blind  harper,  lays  his  bewildered  hand  amongst  the 
chords,  but  recoils  back  at  the  sound  of  an  approaching  car- 
riage. Anger,  with  starting  eyeballs,  blows  a rude  clash  on 
the  bugle-horn;  and  Despair,  a snipe-faced  wight,  beguiles  his 
grief  with  low  sullen  sounds  on  the  bassoon.  Hope,  a consump- 
tive Scot,  with  golden  hair  and  a clarionet,  indulges,  like  the 
flatterer  herself,  in  a thousand  fantastic  flourishes  beside  the 
tune — with  a lingering  quaver  at  the  close ; and  would  quaver 
longer,  but  Revenge  shakes  his  matted  locks,  blows  a fresh 
alarum  on  his  pandeans,  and  thumps  with  double  heat  his 
double-drum.  Dejected  Pity  at  his  side,  a hunger-bitten 
urchin,  applies  to  his  silver-toned  triangle  ; whilst  Jealousy,  sad 
proof  of  his  distracted  state,  grinds  on,  in  all  sorts  of  time,  at 
his  barrel-organ.  With  eyes  upraised,  pale  Melancholy  sings 
retired  and  unheeded  at  the  corner  of  the  street ; and  Mirth 
— yonder  he  is,  a brisk  little  Savoyard,  jerking  away  at  the 
hurdy-gurdy,  and  dancing  himself  at  the  same  time,  to  render 
his  jig-tune  more  jigging. 


150 


ORANlOLOar. 


’rpiS  strange  how  like  a very  dunce, 

Man — with  his  humps  upon  his  sconce, 
Has  lived  so  long,  and  yet  no  knowledge  he 
Has  had,  till  lately,  of  Phrenology — 

A science  that  by  simple  dint  of 
Head-combing  he  should  find  a hint  of, 
When  scratching  o’er  those  little  poll-hills. 
The  faculties  throw  up  like  mole-hills ; — 

A science  that,  in  very  spite 
Of  all  his  teeth,  ne’er  came  to  light, 

For  tho’  he  knew  his  skull  had  grinder 


CRAmOLOGY, 


151 


Still  there  turn’d  up  no  organ  finders, 

Still  sages  wrote,  and  ages  fled, 

And  no  man’s  head  came  in  his  head — 

Not  even  the  pate  of  Erra  Pater, 

Knew  aught  about  its  pia  mater. 

At  last  great  Dr.  Gall  bestirs  him — 

I don’t  know  but  it  might  be  Spurzheim — 
Tho’  native  of  a dull  and  slow  land, 

And  makes  partition  of  our  Poll-land ; 

At  our  Acquisitiveness  guesses. 

And  all  those  necessary  nesses 
Indicative  of  human  habits, 

All  burrowing  in  the  head  like  rabbits. 

Thus  Veneration,  he  made  known. 

Had  got  a lodging  at  the  Crown : 

And  Music  (see  Deville’s  example) 

A set  of  chambers  in  the  Temple : 

That  Language  taught  the  tongues  close  by, 
And  took  in  pupils  thro’  the  eye. 

Close  by  his  neighbour  Computation, 

Who  taught  the  eyebrows  numeration. 


The  science  thus — to  speak  in  fit 
Terms — having  struggled  from  its  nit. 
Was  seiz’d  on  by  a swarm  of  Scotchmen, 
Those  scientifical  hotch-potch  men. 

Who  have  at  least  a penny  dip 
And  wallop  in  all  doctorship. 

Just  as  in  making  broth  they  smatter 
By  bobbing  twenty  things  in  water : 
These  men,  I say,  made  quick  appliance 
And  close,  to  phrenologic  science : 

For  of  all  learned  themes  whatever 
That  schools  and  colleges  deliver. 

There’s  none  they  love  so  near  the  bodies, 
As  analyzing  their  own  noddles, 


152 


CBAFIOLOGY. 


Thus  in  a trice  each  northern  blockhead 
Had  got  his  fingers  in  his  shock  head, 

And  of  his  bumps  was  babbling  yet  worse 
Than  poor  Miss  Capulet’s  dry  wet-nurse ; 
Till  having  been  sufficient  rangers 
Of  their  own  heads,  they  took  to  strangers’, 
And  found  in  Presbyterians’  polls 
The  things  they  hated  in  their  souls ; 

For  Presbyterians  hear  with  passion 
Of  organs  join’d  with  veneration. 

No  kind  there  was  of  human  pumpkin 
But  at  its  bumps  it  had  a bumpkin ; 

Down  to  the  very  lowest  gullion, 

And  oiliest  scull  of  oily  scullion. 

No  great  man  died  but  this  they  did  do, 
They  begged  his  cranium  of  his  widow ; 

No  murderer  died  by  law  disaster, 

But  they  took  off  his  sconce  in  plaster ; 

For  thereon  they  could  show  depending, 

‘‘  The  head  and  front  of  his  offending,” 

How  that  his  philanthropic  bump 
Was  master’d  by  a baser  lump; 

For  every  bump  (these  wags  insist) 

Has  its  direct  antagonist. 

Each  striving  stoutly  to  prevail, 

Like  horses  knotted  tail  to  tail ; 

And  many  a stiff  and  sturdy  battle 
Occurs  between  these  adverse  cattle, 

The  secret  cause,  beyond  all  question. 

Of  aches  ascribed  to  indigestion, — • 

Whereas  ’tis  but  two  knobby  rivals 
Tugging  together  like  sheer  devils. 

Till  one  gets  mastery  good  or  sinister, 

And  comes  in  like  a new  prime-minister. 

Each  bias  in  some  master  node  is : — 

What  takes  M’Adam  where  a road  is, 


CRANIOLOGY. 


153 


To  hammer  little  pebbles  less  ? 

Ilis  organ  of  Destructiveness. 

What  makes  great  Joseph  so  encumber 
Debate  ? a lumping  lump  of  Number ; 

Or  Malthus  rail  at  babies  so  ? 

The  smallness  of  his  Philopro — 

What  severs  man  and  wife  ? a simple 
Defect  of  the  Adhesive  pimple  : 

Or  makes  weak  women  go  astray  ? 

Their  bumps  are  more  in  fault  than  they. 
These  facts  being  found  and  set  in  order 
By  grave  M.D.’s  beyond  the  Border, 

To  make  them  for  some  few  months  eternal, 
Were  enter’d  monthly  in  a journal. 

That  many  a northern  sage  still  writes  in. 
And  throws  his  little  Northern  Lights  in. 
And  proves  and  proves  about  the  phrenos, 

A great  deal  more  than  I or  he  knows. 

How  Music  suffers,  par  exemple, 

By  wearing  tight  hats  round  the  temple  j 
What  ills  great  boxers  have  to  fear 
From  blisters  put  behind  the  ear : 

And  how  a porter’s  Veneration 
Is  hurt  by  porter’s  occupation : 

Whether  shillelahs  in  reality 
May  deaden  Individuality : 

Or  tongs  and  poker  be  creative 
Of  alterations  in  the  Amative  : 

If  falls  from  scaffolds  make  us  less 
Inclin’d  to  all  Constructiveness : 

With  more  such  matters,  all  applying 
To  heads — and  therefore  headiijm^. 

•y-^r 


154 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  HONOUR. 


HONOUR  CALLS  HIM  TO  THE  FIELD.” 


A ND  those  were  the  only  duels,”  concluded  the  major, 
“ that  ever  I fought  in  my  life.” 

Now  the  major  reminded  me  strongly  of  an  old  boatman 
at  Hastings,  who,  after  a story  of  a swimmer  that  was  snapped 
asunder  by  a “sea-attorney”  in  the  West  Indies,  made  an 
end  in  the  same  fashion : — “ And  that  was  the  only  time,” 
said  he,  “ I ever  saw  a man  bit  in  two  by  a shark.” 

A single  occurrence  of  the  kind  seemed  sufficient  for  the 
experience  of  one  life ; and  so  I reasoned  upon  the  major’s 
nine  duels.  He  must,  in  the  first  place,  have  been  not  only 
jealous  and  swift  to  quarrel ; but,  in  the  second,  have  met 
with  nine  intemperate  spirits  equally  forward  with  himself.  It 
is  but  in  one  affront  out  of  ten  that  the  duellist  meets  with  a 
duellist — a computation  assigning  ninety  mortal  disagree- 
ments to  his  single  share ; whereas  I,  with  equal  irritability, 
and  as  much  courage  perhaps,  had  never  exchanged  a card  in 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  HONOUR, 


155 


my  life.  The  subject  occupied  me  all  the  walk  homeward 
through  the  meadows  : — “ To  get  involved  in  nine  duels,”  said 
I : “ Tis  quite  improbable  !” 

As  I thought  thus,- 1 had  thrust  my  body  halfway  under  a 
rough  bar  that  was  doing  duty  for  a stile  at  one  end  of  a field. 
It  was  just  too  high  to  climb  comfortably,  and  just  low  enough 
to  be  inconvenient  to  duck  under;  but  I chose  the  latter 
mode,  and  began  to  creep  through  with  the  deliberateness 
consistent  with  doubtful  and  intricate  speculation.  ‘‘  To  get 
involved  in  nine  duels” — here  my  back  hitched  a little  at  the 
bar — “ ’tis  quite  impossible.” 

I am  persuaded  that  there  is  a spirit  of  mischief  afoot  in 
the  world — some  malignant  fiend  to  seize  upon  and  direct 
these  accidents : for  just  at  this  nick,  whilst  I was  boggling 
below  the  bar,  there  came  up  another  passenger  by  the  same 
path : so  seeing  how  matters  stood,  he  made  an  attempt  at 
once  to  throw  his  leg  over  the  impediment ; but,  mistaking 
the  altitude  by  a few  inches,  he  kicked  me — where  I had 
never  been  kicked  before. 

“ By  Heaven ! this  is  too  bad,”  said  I,  staggering  through 
head  foremost  from  the  concussion;  my  back  was  up,  in 
every  sense,  in  a second. 

The  stranger  apologized  in  the  politest  terms,  but  with 
such  an  intolerable  chuckle,  with  such  a provoking  grin  lurk- 
ing about  his  face,  that  I felt  fury  enough,  like  Beatrice,  “ to 
eat  his  heart  in  the  market-place.”  In  short,  in  two  little 
minutes  from  venting  my  conviction  upon  duelling,  I found 
myself  engaged  to  a meeting  for  the  vindication  of  my  honour. 

There  is  a vivid  description  in  the  history  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,  of  the  horror  of  the  solitary  Mariner  at  finding  the 
mark  of  a foot  in  the  sandy  beach  of  his  Desert  Island.  That 
abominable  token,  in  a place  that  he  fancied  was  sacred  to 
himself — in  a part,  he  made  sure,  never  trodden  by  the  sole 


156 


^^NOTIIim  BUT  IIEABTSr 


of  man — haunted  him  whereyer  he  went.  So  did  mine.  I 
bore  about  with  me  the  same  ideal  imprint — to  be  washed 
out,  not  by  the  ocean-brine,  but  with  blood  ! 

As  I walked  homeward  after  this  adventure,  and  reflected 
on  my  former  opinions,  I felt  that  I had  done  the  gallant 
major  an  injustice.  It  seemed  likely  that  a man  of  his  pro- 
fession might  be  called  out  even  to  the  ninth  time — nay,  that 
men  of  the  peaceful  cloth  might,  on  a chance,  be  obliged  to 
have  recourse  to  mortal  combat. 

As  for  Gentlemen  at  the  Bar^  I have  shown  how  they  may 
get  into  an  Affair  of  Honour  in  a twinkling. 


-4> 


IT  must  have  been  the  lot  of  every  whist-player  to  observe 
a phenomenon  at  the  card-table,  as  mysterious  as  any  in 
nature:  I mean  the  constant  recurrence  of  a certain  trump 
throughout  the  night — a run  upon  a particular  suit,  that  sets 
all  the  calculations  of  Hoyle  and  Cocker  at  defiance.  The 
chance  of  turning-up  is  equal  to  the  Tour  Denominations. 
They  should  alternate  with  each  other,  on  the  average — 
whereas  a Heart,  perhaps,  shall  be  the  last  card  of  every  deal. 
King  or  Queen,  Ace  or  Deuce, — still  it  is  of  the  same  clan. 
You  cut — and  it  comes  again.  “ Nothing  but  Hearts !” 

The  figure  herewith  might  be  fancied  to  embody  this  kind 
of  occurrence  ; and,  in  truth,  it  was  designed  to  commemorate 
an  evening  dedicated  to  the  same  red  suit.  I had  looked  in 
by  chance  at  the  Eoyal  Institution : a Mr.  Professor  Pattison, 
of  New  York,  I believe,  was  lecturing,  and  the  subject  was — 
“ Nothing  but  Hearts  !” 


NOTHING  BUT  HEARTS H 


157 


Some  liiindreds  of  grave,  curious,  or  scientific  personages 
were  ranged  on  the  benches  of  the  Theatre  ; every  one  in  his 
solemn  black.  On  a table,  in  front  of  the  Professor,  stood 
the  specimens  : hearts  of  all  shapes  and  sizes — man’s,  wo- 
man’s, sheep’s,  bullock’s, — on  platters  or  in  cloths, — were 
lying  about  as  familiar  as  household  wares.  Drawings  of 
hearts,  in  black  or  blood-red,  (dismal  valentines!)  hung 
around  the  fearful  w^alls.  Preparations  of  the  organ  in  wax, 
or  bottled,  passed  currently  from  hand  to  hand,  from  eye  to 
eye,  and  returned  to  the  gloomy  table.  It  was  like  some 
solemn  Egyptian  Inquisition — a looking  into  dead  men’s 
hearts  for  their  morals. 

The  Professor  began.  Each  after  each  he  displayed  the 
samples  ; the  words  “ auricle”  and  “ ventricle”  falling  fre- 
quently on  the  ear,  as  he  explained  how  those  “ solemn 
organs”  pump  in  the  human  breast.  He  showed,  by  experi- 
ments with  w^ater,  the  operation  of  the  valves  with  the  blood, 
and  the  impossibility  of  its  revulsion.  As  he  spoke,  an  inde- 
scribable thrilling  or  tremor  crept  over  my  left  breast — thence 
down  my  side — and  all  over.  I felt  an  awful  consciousness 
of  the  bodily  presence  of  my  heart,  till  then  nothing  more 
than  it  is  in  song — a mere  metaphor — so  imperceptible  are 
all  the  grand  vital  workings  of  the  human  frame  ! Now  I 
felt  the  organ  distinctly.  There  it  was ! — a fleshy  core — aye, 
like  that  on  the  Professor’s  plate — throbbing  away,  auricle  and 
ventricle,  the  valve  allowing  the  gushing  blood  at  so  many 
gallons  per  minute,  and  ever  prohibiting  its  return ! 

The  Professor  proceeded  to  enlarge  on  the  important  office 
of  the  great  functionary,  and  the  vital  engine  seemed  to  dilate 
wdthin  me,  in  proportion  to  the  sense  of  its  stupendous  re- 
sponsibility. I seemed  nothing  but  auricle,  and  ventricle,  and 
valve.  I had  no  breath,  but  only  pulsations.  Those  who 
have  been  present  at  anatomical  discussions  can  alone  corrob- 


158 


NOTHING  BUT  HEARTS H 


orate  this  feeling — how  the  part  discoursed  of,  by  a surpass- 
ing sympathy  and  sensibility,  causes  its  counterpart  to  become 
prominent  and  all-engrossing  to  the  sense ; how  a lecture  on 
hearts  makes  a man  seem  to  himself  as  all  heart;  or  one  on 
heads  causes  a Phrenologist  to  conceive  he  is  “all  brain.” 

Thus  was  I absorbed: — “my  bosom’s  lord”  lording  over 
every  thing  beside.  By  and  by,  in  lieu  of  one  solitary  ma- 
chine, I saw  before  me  a congregation  of  hundreds  of  human 
forcing-pumps,  all  awfully  working  together — the  palpitations 
of  hundreds  of  auricles  and  ventricles,  the  flapping  of  hun- 
dreds of  valves ! And  anon  they  collapsed — mine — the 
Professor’s — those  on  the  benches — all ! all ! — into  one  great 
auricle — one  great  ventricle — one  vast  universal  heart ! 

The  lecture  ended — I took  up  my  hat  and  walked  out,  but 
the  discourse  haunted  me.  I was  full  of  the  subject.  A kind 
of  fluttering,  which  was  not  to  be  cured  even  by  the  fresh  air, 
gave  me  plainly  to  understand  that  my  heart  was  not  “ in  the 
Highlands,” — nor  in  any  lady’s  keeping, — but  where  it  ought 
to  be,  in  my  own  bosom,  and  as  hard  at  work  as  a parish 
pump.  I plainly  felt  the  blood — like  the  carriages  on  a birth- 
night — coming  in  by  the  auricle,  and  going  out  by  the  ven- 
tricle ; and  shuddered  to  fancy  what  must  ensue,  either  way, 
from  any  “ breaking  the  line.”  Then  occurred  to  me  the 
danger  of  little  particles  absorbed  in  the  blood,  and  accumu- 
lating to  a stoppage  at  the  valve, — the  “ pumps  getting 
choked,” — a suggestion  that  made  me  feel  rather  qualmish, 

and  for  relief  I made  a call  on  Mrs.  W . The  visit  was 

ill-chosen  and  mistimed,  for  the  lady  in  question,  by  dint  of 
good-nature,  and  a romantic  turn, — principally  estimated  by 
her  young  and  female  acquaintance, — had  acquired  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  “ all  heart.”  The  phrase  had  often  provoked 
my  mirth, — but,  alas ! the  description  was  now  over  true. 
Whether  nature  had  formed  her  in  that  mould,  or  my  own 


^^jafOTIlING  BUT  IIBAETSr 


159 


distempered  fancy,  I know  not — but  there  she  sate,  and  looked 
the  Professor’s  lecture  over  again.  She  was  like  one  of  those 
games  alluded  to  in  my  beginning — “ Nothing  but  Hearts !” 
Her  nose  turned  up.  It  was  a heart — and  her  mouth  led  a 
trump.  Her  face  gave  a heart — and  her  cap  followed  suit. 
Her  sleeves  puckered  and  plumped  themselves  into  a heart- 
shape — and  so  did  her  body.  Her  pincushion  was  a heart — 
the  very  back  of  her  chair  was  a heart.  She  was  ‘‘  all  heart” 
indeed ! 


SHE  13  ALL  HEART.' 


160 


A PARTHIAN  QLANCE. 


RETROSPECTIVE  REVIEW. 


|l  f §lmtt 

Sweet  Memory,  wafted  by  thy  gentle  gale, 

Oft  up  the  stream  of  time  I turn  my  sail.’* 

Rogers. 

^OME,  my  Crony,  let’s  think  upon  far-away  days, 

^ And  lift  up  a little  Oblivion’s  veil ; 

Let’s  consider  the  past  with  a lingering  gaze, 

Like  a peacock  whose  eyes  are  inclin’d  to  his  tail. 

Aye,  come,  let  us  turn  our  attention  behind. 

Like  those  critics  whose  heads  are  so  heavy,  I fear. 
That  they  cannot  keep  up  with  the  march  of  the  mind. 
And  so  turn  face  about  for  reviewing  the  rear. 


A PART  JUAN  GLANCE. 


IGl 


Looking  over  Time’s  crupper  and  over  his  tail, 

Oh,  what  ages  and  pages  there  are  to  revise ! 

And  as  fai’ther  our  back-searching  glances  prevail. 

Like  the  emmets,  ‘‘  how  little  we  are  in  our  eyes !” 

What  a sweet  pretty  innocent,  half-a-yard  long. 

On  a dimity  lap  of  true  nursery  make ! 

I can  fancy  I hear  the  old  lullaby  song 

That  was  meant  to  compose  me,  but  kept  me  awake. 

Methinksvl  still  suffer  the  infantine  throes. 

When  my  flesh  was  a cushion  for  any  long  pin — 

Whilst  they  patted  my  body  to  comfort  my  woes. 

Oh ! how  little  they  dreamt  they  were  diiving  them  in ! 

Infant  sorrows  are  strong — infant  pleasures  as  weak — 

But  no  grief  was  allow’d  to  indulge  in  its  note ; 

Did  you  ever  attempt  a small  “ bubble  and  squeak,” 

Thro’  the  Dalby’s  Carminative  down  in  your  throat  ? 

. Did  you  ever  go  up  to  the  roof  with  a bounce  ? 

Did  you  ever  come  down  to  the  floor  with  the  same  ? 

Oh ! I can’t  but  agree  with  both  ends,  and  pronounce 
‘‘  Head  or  tails,”  with  a child,  an  unpleasantish  game  ? 

Then  an  urchin — I see  myself  urchin,  indeed, 

With  a smooth  Sunday  face  for  a mother’s  delight; 

Why  should  weeks  have  an  end  ? — I am  sure  there  was  need 
Of  a Sabbath,  to  follow  each  Saturday-night. 

Was  your  face  ever  sent  to  the  housemaid  to  scrub  ? 

Have  you  ever  felt  huckaback  soften’d  with  sand  ? 

Had  you  ever  your  nose  to  well’d  up  to  a snub. 

And  your  eyes  knuckled  out  with  the  back  of  the  hand  ? 

Then  a school-boy — my  tailor  was  nothing  in  fault, 

For  an  urchin  will  grow  to  a lad  by  degrees, — • 

But  how  well  I remember  that  pepper  and  salt” 

That  was  down  to  the  elbows,  and  up  to  the  loiees ! 


162 


A PARTHIAN  GLANCE, 


What  a figure  it  cut  when  as  Norval  I spoke ! 

With  a lanky  right  leg  duly  planted  before ; 

Whilst  I told  of  the  chief  that  was  kill’d  by  my  stroke, 
And  extended  my  arms  as  the  arms  that  he  wore !” 

Next  a Lover — Oh ! say,  were  you  ever  in  love  ? 

With  a lady  too  cold — and  your  bosom  too  hot  ? 
Have  you  bow’d  to  a shoe-tie,  and  knelt  to  a glove  ? 
Like  a heau  that  desired  to  he  tied  in  a knot  ? 

With  the  Bride  all  in  white,  and  your  body  in  blue. 
Did  you  walk  up  the  aisle — the  genteelest  of  men  ? 
When  I think  of  that  beautiful  vision  anew. 

Oh ! I seem  but  the  hiffin  of  what  I was  then ! 

I am  wither’d  and  worn  by  a premature  care. 

And  my  wrinkles  confess  the  decline  of  my  days ; 
Old  Time’s  busy  hand  has  made  free  with  my  hair. 
And  I’m  seeking  to  hide  it — ^by  writing  for  bays ! 


‘‘how  happy  could  I BE  WITH  EITHER.” 


TEE  WEE  MAN. 


163 


lim. 

A ROMANCE. 

TT  was  a merry  company, 

And  they  were  just  afloat, 

When  lo  ! a man  of  dwarfish  span, 
Came  up  and  hail’d  the  boat. 

**  Good  morrow  to  ye,  gentle  folks. 
And  will  you  let  me  in  ? — 

A slender  space  will  serve  my  case. 
For  I am  small  and  thin.” 

They  saw  he  was  a dwarfish  man. 
And  very  small  and  thin ; 

Not  seven  such  would  matter  much, 
And  so  they  took  him  in. 

They  laugh’d  to  see  his  little  hat. 
With  such  a narrow  brim ; 

They  laugh’d  to  note  his  dapper  coat 
With  skirts  so  scant  and  trim. 


164 


THE  WEE  MAN. 


But  barely  bad  they  gone  a mile, 

When  gravely,  one  and  all, 

At  once  began  to  think  the  man 
Was  not  so  very  small. 

His  coat  had  got  a broader  skirt. 

His  hat  a broader  brim, 

His  leg  grew  stout,  and  soon  plump’d  out 
A very  proper  limb. 

Still  on  they  went,  and  as  they  went, 
More  rough  the  billows  grew — 

And  rose  and  fell,  a greater  swell. 

And  he  was  swelling  too ! 

And  lo ! where  room  had  been  for  seven, 
For  six  there  scarce  was  space  ! 

For  five ! — for  four ! — for  three ! — not  more 
Than  two  could  find  a place ! 

There  was  not  even  room  for  one ! 

They  crowded  by  degrees — 

Aye — closer  yet,  till  elbows  met. 

And  knees  were  jogging  knees. 

“ Good  sir,  you  must  not  sit  astern. 

The  wave  will  else  come  in !” 

Without  a word  he  gravely  stirr’d. 
Another  seat  to  win. 

“ Good  sir,  the  boat  has  lost  her  trim. 

You  must  not  sit  a-lee !” 

With  smiling  face,  and  courteous  grace. 
The  middle  seat  took  he. 

But  still,  hy  constant  quiet  growth, 

Hi^  back  became  so  wide. 

Each  neighbour  wight  to  left  and  right. 
Was  thrust  against  the  side. 


A SAILOR'S  APOLOGY  FOR  BOW-LEGS, 


165 


Lord ! how  they  chided  with  themselves, 
That  they  had  let  him  in ; 

To  see  him  grow  so  monstrous  now, 

That  came  so  small  and  thin. 

On  every  brow  a dew-drop  stood. 

They  grew  so  scared  and  hot, — 

“ I’  the  name  of  all  that’s  great  and  tall. 
Who  are  ye,  sir,  and  what  ?” 

Loud  laugh’d  the  Gogmagog,  a laugh 
As  loud  as  giant’s  roar — 

When  first  I came,  my  proper  name 
Was  Little — now  I’m  Moore 


% Saite’s  for  i0fo-fop. 

rpHERE’S  some  is  bom  with  their  straight  legs  by  natur — 
And  some  is  born  with  bow-legs  from  the  first — 

And  some  that  should  have  grow’d  a good  deal  straighter. 
But  they  were  badly  nurs’d. 

And  set,  you  see,  like  Bacchus,  with  their  pegs 
Astride  of  casks  and  kegs : 

I’ve  got  myself  a sort  of  bow  to  larboard. 

And  starboard. 

And  this  is  what  it  was  that  warp’d  my  legs. — 

Twas  all  along  of  Poll,  as  I may  say, 

That  foul’d  my  cable  w^hen  I ought  to  slip ; 

But  on  the  tenth  of  May, 

When  I gets  under  weigh, 

Down  there  in  Hartfordshire,  to  join  my  ship, 

I sees  the  mail 
Get  under  sail, 

The  only  one  there  was  to  make  the  trip. 


166 


A SAILOE^S  APOLOGY  FOE  BOW-LEGS. 


Well — I gives  chase, 

But  as  she  run 
Two  knots  to  one, 

There  warnT  no  use  in  keeping  on  the  race ! 
Well — casting  round  about,  what  next  to  try  on, 
And  how  to  spin, 

I spies  an  ensign  with  a Bloody  Lion, 

And  bears  away  to  leeward  for  the  inn, 

Beats  round  the  gable. 

And  fetches  up  before  the  coach-horse  stable : 
Well — there  they  stand,  four  kickers  in  a row, 
And  so 

I just  makes  free  to  cut  a brown  un’s  cable. 

But  riding  isn’t  in  a seaman’s  natur — 

So  I whips  out  a toughi^h  end  of  yarn. 

And  gets  a kind  of  a sort  of  a land- waiter 
To  splice  me,  heel  to  heel, 

Under  the  she-mare’s  keel. 

And  off  I goes,  and  leaves  the  inn  a-starn ! 

My  eyes ! how  she  did  pitch ! 

And  wouldn’t  keep  her  own  to  go  in  no  line, 
Tho’  I kept  bowsing,  bowsing  at  her  bow-line. 
But  always  making  lee-way  to  the  ditch, 

And  yaw’d  her  head  about  all  sorts  of  ways. 

The  devil  sink  the  craft ! 

And  wasn’t  she  trimendus  slack  in  stays ! 

We  couldn’t,  no  how,  keep  the  inn  abaft ! 

Well — I suppose 

We  hadn’t  run  a knot — or  much  beyond — 
(What  will  you  have  on  it  ?) — but  off  she  goes. 
Up  to  her  bends  in  a fresh-water  pond ! 

There  I am ! — all  a-back ! 

So  I looks  forward  for  her  bridle-gears. 

To  heave  her  head  round  on  the  t’other  tack ; 
But  when  I starts. 

The  leather  parts. 

And  goes  away  right  over  by  the  ears : 


A SAILORS S APOLOGY  FOR  ROW-LEGS. 


1G7 


What  could  a fellow  do, 

Whose  legs,  like  mine,  you  know,  were  in  the  bilboes, 
But  trim  myself  upright  for  bringing- to. 

And  square  his  yard-arms,  and  brace  up  his  elbows. 

In  rig  all  snug  and  clever. 

Just  while  his  craft  was  taking  in  her  water? 

I didn’t  like  my  burth  tho’,  howsomdever. 

Because  the  yarn,  you  see,  kept  getting  taughter, — 
Says  I — I wish  this  job  was  rayther  shorter! 

The  chase  had  gain’d  a mile 
Ahead,  and  still  the  she-mare  stood  a-drinking ; 

Now,  aU  the  while 

Her  body  didn’t  take  of  course  to  shrinking. 

Says  I,  she’s  letting  out  her  reefs,  I’m  thinking — 

And  so  she  s well’d,  and  swell’d. 

And  yet  the  tackle  held, 

^TiU  both  my  legs  began  to  bend  like  winkin. 

My  eyes ! but  she  took  in  enough  to  founder ! 

And  there’s  my  timbers  straining  every  bit. 

Beady  to  split. 

And  her  tarnation  hull  a-growing  rounder ! 

Well,  there — off  Hartford  Ness, 

We  lay  both  lash’d  and  water-logg’d  together. 

And  can’t  contrive  a signal  of  distress ; 
Thinks  I,  we  must  ride  out  this  here  foul  weather, 
Tho’  sick  of  riding  out — and  nothing  less ; 

When  looking  round,  I sees  a man  a-starn  : — ■ 

Hollo ! says  I,  come  underneath  her  quarter ! — • 

And  hands  him  out  my  knife  to  cut  the  yarn. 

So  I gets  off,  and  lands  upon  the  road. 

And  leaves  the  she^mare  to  her  own  concarn, 
A-standing  by  the  water. 

If  I get  on  another.  I’ll  be  blow’d ! — 

And  that’s  the  way,  you  see,  my  legs  got  bow’d ! 


168 


PYTIlAGOliEAN  FANCIES. 


Iannis. 

OF  all  creeds — after  the  Christian — I incline  most  to  the 
Pythagorean.  I like  the  notion  of  inhabiting  the  body  of 
a bird.  It  is  the  next  thing  to  being  a cherub — at  least, 
according  to  the  popular  image  of  a boy’s  head  and  wings ; a 
fancy  that  savours  strangely  of  the  Pythagorean. 

I think  nobly  of  the  soul,  with  Malvolio,  but  not  so  meanly, 
as  he  does  by  implication,  of  a bird-body.  What  disparage- 
ment would  it  seem  to  shuffle  off  a crippled,  palsied,  languid 
bed-ridden  carcass  and  find  yourself  floating  above  the  world 
— in  a flood  of  sunshine — under  the  feathers  of  a Royal  Eagle 
of  the  Andes  ? 


PYTHAGOREAN  FANCIES. 


1G9 


For  a beast-bod j I have  less  relish — and  yet  how  many 
men  are  there  who  seem  predestined  to  such  an  occupancy, 
being  in  this  life  even  more  than  semi-brutal ! How  many 
human  faces  that  at  least  countenance,  if  they  do  not  confirm, 
this  part  of  the  Brahminical  Doctrine ! What  apes,  foxes, 
pigs,  curs,  and  cats,  walk  our  metropolis — to  say  nothing  of 
him  shambling  along  Carnaby  or  Whitechapel — 

A butcher! 

Whoe’er  has  gone  thro’  London  Street, 

Has  seen  a butcher  gazing  at  his  meat, 

And  how  he  keeps 
Gloating  upon  a sheep’s 
Or  bullock’s  personals,  as  if  his  own ; 

How  he  admires  his  halves 
And  quarters — and  his  calves. 

As  if  in  truth  upon  his  own  legs  grown ; — 

Hlis  fat ! his  suet ! 

His  kidneys  peeping  elegantly  thro’  it! 

His  thick  flank ! 

And  his  thin ! 

His  shank ! 

His  shin ! 

Skin  of  his  skin,  and  hone  too  of  his  bone ! 

With  what  an  air 

He  stands  aloof,  across  the  thoroughfare. 

Gazing — and  will  not  let  a body  by, 

Tho’  buy ! buy ! buy ! be  constantly  his  cry ; 
Meanwhile  with  arms  akimbo,  and  a pair 
Of  Rhodian  legs,  he  revels  in  a stare 
At  his  J oint  Stock — for  one  may  call  it  so, 

Howbeit,  without  a Co. 

The  dotage  of  self-love  was  never  fonder 
Than  he  of  his  brute  bodies  all  a-row ; 

8 


170 


PYTHAGOREAN  FANCIES. 


Narcissus  in  the  wave  did  never  ponder, 

With  love  so  strong, 

On  his  ‘‘  portrait  charmant,” 

As  our  vain  Butcher  on  his  carcass  yonder. 

Look  at  his  sleek  round  skull ! 

How  bright  his  cheek,  how  rubicund  his  nose  is ! 
His  visage  seems  to  be 
Ripe  for  beef-tea ; 

Of  brutal  juices  the  whole  man  is  full — 

In  fact,  fulfilling  the  metempsychosis. 

The  butcher  is  already  half  a Bull. 


COMPARATIVE  PHYSIOLOGY. 


Surpassing  the  Butcher,  in  his  approximation  to  the  brute, 
behold  yon  vagrant  Hassan — a wandering  camel-driver  and 
exhibiter — parading,  for  a few  pence,  the  creature’s  outlandish 
hump,  yet  burthened  himself  with  a bunch  of  flesh  between 
the  shoulders.  For  the  sake  of  the  implicit  moral  merely,  or 


PYTHAGOREAN  FANCIES, 


171 


as  an  illustration  of  comparative  physiology,  the  show  is  valu- 
able ; but  as  an  example  of  the  Pythagorean  dispensation,  it 
is  above  appraisement.  The  retributive  metamorphosis  has 
commenced — the  Beast  has  set  his  seal  upon  the  Human 
Form — a little  further,  and  he  will  be  ready  for  a halter  and 
a showman. 

As  there  are  instances  of  men  thus  transmuting  into  the 
brute,  so  there  are  brutes,  that,  by  peculiar  human  manners 
and  resemblance,  seem  to  hint  at  a former  and  a better  con- 
dition. The  orang-outang,  and  the  monkey,  notoriously  claim 
this  relationship : and  there  are  other  tribes,  and  in  particular 
some  which  use  the  erect  posture,  that  are  apt  to  provoke  such 
Pythagorean  associations.  For  example:  I could  never  read 
of  the  great  William  Penn’s  interview  with  the  American 
savages,  or  look  on  the  painting  commemorative  of  that  event, 
without  dreaming  that  I had  seen  it  acted  over  again  at  the 
meeting  of  a tribe  of  Kangaroos  and  a Penguin.  The  Kanga- 
roos, sharp-sighted,  vigilant,  cunning,  wild,  swift,  and  active,  as 
the  Indians  themselves ; — the  Penguin,  very  sleek,  guiltless  of 
arms,  very  taciturn,  very  sedate,  except  when  jumping,  up- 
right in  its  conduct — a perfect  Quaker.  It  confirmed  me  in 
this  last  fancy,  to  read  of  the  conduct  of  these  gentle  birds 
when  assaulted,  formerly,  with  long  poles,  by  the  seamen  of 
Captain  Cook — buffetings  which  the  Penguins  took  quietly  on 
either  cheek,  or  side  of  the  head,  and  died  as  meekly  and  pas- 
sively as  the  primitive  Martyrs  of  the  Sect ! 

It  is  difficult  to  say  to  what  excesses  the  desire  of  fresh 
victual,  after  long  salt  junketing,  may  drive  a mariner ; for 
my  own  part,  I could  not  have  handled  a pole  in  that  perse- 
cution without  strong  Pythagorean  misgivings. 

There  is  a Juvenile  Poem,  “ The  Notorious  Glutton,”  by 
Miss  Taylor,  of  Ongar,  in  which  a duck  falls  sick  and  dies  in 
a very  human-like  way.  I could  never  eat  duck  for  some 


172 


PYTHAGOREAN  FANCIES. 


time  after  the  perusal  of  those  verses;  it  seemed  as  if  in 
reality  the  soul  of  my  grandam  might  inhabit  such  a bird.  In 
mere  tenderness  to  past  womanhood,  I could  never  lay  the 
death-scene  elsewhere  than  in  a lady’s  chamber — with  the 
body  of  the  invalid  propped  up  by  comfortable  pillows  on  a 
nursery -chair.  The  sick  attendant  seemed  one  that  had  rel- 
ished drams  aforetime — had  been  pompously  officious  at 
human  dissolutions,  and  would  announce  that  “ all  was  over!” 
with  the  same  flapping  of  paws  and  duck-like  inflections  of 
tone.  As  for  the  physician,  he  was  an  Ex-Quack  of  our  own 
kind,  just  called  in  from  the  pond — a sort  of  Man-Drake,  and 
formerly  a brother  by  nature,  as  now  by  name,  of  the  author 
of  “ Winter  Nights.” 


THE  LAST  VISIT. 


DON'T  YOU  SMELL  FLUE?" 


173 


i0n't  pw  smell  lire  r 

T)  UN ! — run  for  St.  Clements’s  engine ! 

For  the  Pawnbroker ’s  all  in  a blaze, 

And  the  pledges  are  frying  and  singing — 

Oh ! how  the  poor  pawners  will  craze ! 

Now  where  can  the  turncock  he  drinking  ? 

Was  there  ever  so  thirsty  an  elf? — 

But  he  still  may  tope  on,  for  I’m  thinking 
That  the  plugs  are  as  dry  as  himself. 

The  engines  !~I  hear  them  come  rumbling ; 

There’s  the  Phoenix!  the  Globe!  and  the  Sun! 
What  a row  there  will  be,  and  a grumbling, 
When  the  water  don’t  start  for  a run ! 


174 


D ON'' T YOU  SMELL  FIRE ? 


See ! there  they  come  racing  and  tearing, 

All  the  street  with  loud  voices  is  fill’d ; 

Oh ! it’s  only  the  firemen  a-s wearing 
At  a man  they’ve  run  over  and  kill’d ! 

How  sweetly  the  sparks  fly  away  now, 

And  twinkle  like  stars  in  the  sky ; 

It’s  a wonder  the  engines  don’t  play  now, 

But  I never  saw  water  so  shy ! 

Why  there  isn’t  enough  for  a snipe, 

And  the  fire  it  is  fiercer,  alas ! 

Oh ! instead  of  the  New  Biver  pipe, 

They  have  gone — that  they  have — to  the  gas. 

Only  look  at  the  poor  little  P ’s 

On  the  roof — is  tliere  any  thing  sadder  ? 

My  dears,  keep  fast  hold,  if  you  please, 

And  they  won’t  he  an  hour  with  the  ladder ! 

But  if  any  one’s  hot  in  their  feet. 

And  in  very  great  haste  to  be  sav’d, 

Here’s  a nice  easy  bit  in  the  street, 

That  M’Adam  has  lately  un  pav’d ! 

There  is  some  one — I see  a dark  shape 
At  that  window,  the  hottest  of  all, — 

My  good  woman,  why  don’t  you  escape  ? 

Never  think  of  your  bonnet  and  shawl : 

If  your  dress  isn’t  perfect,  what  is  it 
For  once  in  a way  to  your  hurt  ? 

When  your  husband  is  paying  a visit 
There,  at  Number  Fourteen,  in  his  shirt! 

Only  see  how  she  throws  out  her  chaney  / 

Her  basons,  and  teapots,  and  all 

The  most  brittle  of  her  goods — or  any, 

But  they  all  breali  in  breaking  their  fall : 


AiY  ABSENTEE. 


175 


Such  things  are  not  surely  the  host 
From  a twostory  window  to  throw — 

She  might  save  a good  iron-bound  chest, 

For  there’s  plenty  of  people  below  I 

O dear ! what  a beautiful  flash ! 

How  it  shone  thro’  the  window  and  door ; 
We  shall  soon  hear  a scream  and  a crash, 
When  the  woman  falls  thro’  with  the  floor ! 
There ! there ! what  a volley  of  flame, 

And  then  suddenly  all  is  obscur’d ! — 

Well — I’m  glad  in  my  heart  that  I came  j — 
But  I hope  the  poor  man  is  insur’d ! 


IF  ever  a man  wanted  a flapper — no  Butcher’s  mimosa,  or 
catchfly,  but  one  of  those  officers  in  use  at  the  court  of 

Laputa — my  friend  W should  have  such  a remembrancer 

at  his  elbow.  I question  whether  even  the  appliance  of  a 
bladderful  of  peas,  or  pebbles,  would  arouse  him  from  some 
of  his  abstractions — fits  of  mental  insensibility,  parallel  with 
those  bodily  trances  in  which  persons  have  sometimes  been 
coffined.  Not  that  he  is  entangled  in  abstruse  problems,  like 
the  nobility  of  the  Flying  Island ! He  does  not  dive,  like  Sir 
Isaac  Newton,  into  a reverie,  and  turn  up  again  with  a Theory 
of  Gravitation.  His  thoughts  are  not  deeply  engaged  else- 
where— they  are  nowhere.  His  head  revolves  itself,  top-like, 
into  a profound  slumber — a blank  doze  without  a dream. 
He  is  not  carried  away  by  incoherent  rambling  fancies,  out 


176 


AN  ABSENTEE, 


of  himself ; he  is  not  drunk,  merely,  with  the  Waters  of  Ob- 
livion, but  drowned  in  them,  body  and  soul ! 

There  is  a story,  somewhere,  of  one  of  these  absent  per- 
sons, who  stooped  down,  when  tickled  about  the  calf  by  a 
blue-bottle,  and  scratched  his  neighbour’s  leg — an  act  of 
tolerable  forgetfulness,  but  denoting  a state  far  short  of 
W ’s  absorptions.  He  would  never  have  felt  the  fly. 

To  make  W ’s  condition  more  whimsical,  he  lives  in 

a small  bachelor’s  house,  wdth  no  other  attendant  than  an  old 
housekeeper — one  Mistress  Bundy,  of  faculty  as  infirm  and 
intermitting  as  his  own.  It  will  be  readily  believed  that  her 
absent  fits  do  not  originate,  any  more  than  her  master’s,  in 
abstruse  mathematical  speculations — a proof  with  me  that 
such  moods  result.,  not  from  abstractions  of  mind,  but  stag- 
nation. How  so  ill-sorted  a couple  contrive  to  get  through 
the  commonplace  affairs  of  life,  I am  not  prepared  to  say ; 
but  it  is  comical  indeed  to  see  him  ring  up  Mistress  Bundy 
to  receive  orders,  which  he  generally  forgets  to  deliver — or 
if  delivered,  this  old  Bewildered  Maid  lets  slip  out  of  her 
remembrance  with  the  same  facility.  Numberless  occur- 
rences of  this  kind — in  many  instances  more  extravagant — 
are  recorded  by  his  friends;  but  an  evening  that  I spent  with 
him  recently,  will  furnish  an  abundance  of  examples. 

In  spite  of  going  by  his  own  invitation,  I found  W 

within.  He  was  too  apt,  on  such  occasions,  to  be  denied  to 
his  visiters;  but  what  in  others  would  be  an  unpardonable 
affront,  was  overlooked  in  a man  who  was  not  always  at  home 
to  himself.  The  door  was  opened  by  the  housekeeper,  whose 
absence,  as  usual,  would  not  allow  her  to  decide  upon  that  of 
her  master.  Her  shrill,  quavering  voice  went  echoing  up  stairs 

with  its  old  query, — “Mr.  W ! are  you  within?”  then  a 

pause,  literally  for  him  to  collect  himself.  Anon  came  his 
answer,  and  I was  ushered  up  stairs,  Mrs.  Bundy  contriving, 


AN  ABSENTEE. 


177 


as  usual,  to  forget  my  name  at  the  first  landing-place.  I had 

therefore  to  introduce  myself  formally  to  W , whose  old 

friends  came  to  him  always  as  if  with  new  faces.  As  for 
what  followed,  it  was  one  of  the  old  fitful  colloquies — a game 
at  conversation,  sometimes  with  a partner,  sometimes  with  a 
dummy  ; the  old  woman’s  memory,  in  the  mean  time,  grow- 
ing torpid  on  a kitchen-chair.  Hour  after  hour  passed  away : 
no  teaspoon  jingled,  or  teacup  rattled ; no  murmuring  kettle 
or  hissing  urn  found  its  way  upward  from  one  Haunt  of  For- 
getfulness to  the  other.  In  short,  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected with  an  Absentee,  the  Tea  was  absent. 

It  happens  that  the  meal  in  question  is  not  one  of  my 
essentials ; I therefore  never  hinted  at  the  In  Tea  Speravi  of 
my  visit ; but  at  the  turn  of  eleven  o’clock,  my  host  rang  for 
the  apparatus.  The  Chinese  ware  was  brought  up,  but  the 
herb  was  deficient.  Mrs.  Bundy  went  forth,  by  command,  for 
a supply  ; but  it  was  past  grocer-time,  and  we  arranged  to 
make  amends  by  an  early  supper,  which  came,  however,  as 
proportionably  late  as  the  tea.  By  dint  of  those  freedoms 
which  you  must  use  with  an  entertainer  who  is  absent  at  his 

own  table,  I contrived  to  sup  sparely ; and  W ’s  memory, 

blossoming  like  certain  flowers  to  the  night,  reminded  him 
that  I was  accustomed  to  go  to  bed  on  a tumbler  of  Geneva 
and  water.  He  kept  but  one  bottle  of  each  of  the  three 
kinds.  Rum,  Brandy,  and  Hollands,  in  the  house ; and  when 
exhausted,  they  were  replenished  at  the  tavern  a few  doors 
off.  Luckily, — for  it  was  far  beyond  the  midnight  hour,  when, 
according  to  our  vapid  magistracy,  all  spirits  are  evil, — the 
three  vessels  were  full,  and  merely  wanted  bringing  up  stairs. 
The  kettle  was  singing  on  the  hob  ; the  tumblers,  with  spoons 
in  them,  stood  miraculously  ready  on  the  board ; and  Mrs. 
Bundy  was  really  on  her  way  from  below  with  the  one  thing 
needful.  Never  were  fair  hopes  so  unfairly  blighted ! I 

8*^ 


178 


AN  ABSENTEE, 


could  hear  her  step  labouring  on  the  stairs  to  the  very  last 
step,  when,  her  memory  serving  her  just  as  treacherously  as 
her  own  forgetfulness,  or  rather  both  betraying  her  together, 
there  befell  the  accident  which  I have  endeavoured  to  record 
by  the  following  sketch. 

I never  ate  or  drank  with  the  Barmecide  again ! 


‘‘lawk!  i’ve  foeqot  the  brandy!’* 


A MARRIAGE  PROCESSION. 


179 


< ^ llarriap 

TT  never  has  been  my  lot  to  marry — whatever  I may  have 
written  of  one  Honoria  to  the  contrary.  My  affair  with 
that  lady  never  reached  beyond  a very  embarrassing  declara- 
tion, in  return  for  which  she  breathed  into  my  dull  deaf  ear  an 
inaudible  answer.  It  was  beyond  my  slender  assurance,  in  those 
days,  to  ask  for  a repetition,  whether  of  acceptance  or  denial. 

One  chance  for  explanation  still  remained.  I wrote  to  her 
mother,  to  bespeak  her  sanction  to  our  union,  and  received  by 
return  of  post,  a scrawl,  that,  for  aught  I knew,  might  be  in 
Sanscrit.  I question  whether,  even  at  this  time,  my  intolerable 
bashfulness  would  suffer  me  to  press  such  a matter  any  farther. 

My  thoughts  of  matrimony  are  now  confined  to  occasional 
day-dreams,  originating  in  some  stray  glimpse  in  the  Prayer 
Book,  or  the  receipt  of  bride-cake.  It  was  on  some  such  oc- 


180 


• A MARIilAa:E  PBOGESSIORr. 


currence  that  I fell  once,  Buiiyan-like,  into  an  allegory  of  a 
wedding. 

My  fancies  took  the  order  of  a procession.  With  flaunting 
banners  it  wound  its  Alexandrine  way — in  the  manner  of 
some  of  Martin’s  painted  pageants — to  a taper  spire  in  the  dis- 
tance. And  first,  like  a band  of  livery,  came  the  honourable 
company  of  Matchmakers,  all  mature  spinsters  and  matrons 
— and  as  like  aunts  and  mothers  as  may  be.  The  Glovers 
trod  closely  on  their  heels.  Anon  came,  in  blue  and  gold,  the 
parish  beadle,  Scarabeus  Parochialis,  with  the  ringers  of  the 
hand-bells.  Then  came  the  Banns — it  was  during  the  reign 
of  Lord  Eldon’s  Act — three  sturdy  pioneers,  with  their  three 
axes,  and  likely  to  hew  down  sterner  impediments  than  lie 
commonly  in  the  path  of  marriage.  On  coming  nearer,  the 
countenance  of  the  first  was  right  foolish  and  perplexed ; of  the 
second,  simpering  ; and  the  last  methought  looked  sedate,  and. 
as  if  dashed  with  a little  fear.  After  the  banns — like  the 
judges  following  the  halberts — came  the  joiners  : no  rough 
mechanics,  but  a portly,  full-blown  vicar,  with  his  clerk, — 
both  rubicund — a peony  paged  by  a pink.  It  made  me  smile 
to  observe  the  droll  clerical  turn  of  the  clerk’s  beaver, 
scrubbed  into  that  fashion  by  his  coat,  at  the  nape.  The  mar- 
riage knot — borne  by  a ticket-porter — came  after  the  divine, 
and  raised  associations  enough  to  sadden  one,  but  for  a pretty 
Cupid  that  came  on  laughing  and  trundling  a hoop-ring.  The 
next  group  was  a numerous  one.  Firemen  of  the  Hand-in-Hand, 
with  the  Union  flag — the  chief  actors  were  near.  With  a mix- 
ture of  anxiety  and  curiosity,  I looked  out  for  the  impending 
couple,  when — how  shall  I tell  it  ? — I beheld,  not  a brace  of 
young  lovers — a Romeo  and  Juliet, — not  a“he-moon  here,  and 
a she-sun  there,” — not  bride  and  bridegroom, — but  the  happy 
pear^  a solitary  Bergamy,  carried  on  a velvet  cushion  by  a 
little  foot-page.  I could  have  forsworn  my  fancy  for  ever  for 


A MAlilUAQE  PROCESSION, 


181 


JOINERS. 


SO  wretched  a conceit,  till  I remembered  that  it  was  intended, 
perhaps,  to  typify,  under  that  figure,  the  mysterious  resolution 
of  two  into  one, — a pair  nominally,  but  in  substance  single, — 
which  belongs  to  marriage.  To  make  amends,  the  high  con- 
tracting parties  approached  in  proper  person — a duplication 
sanctioned  by  the  practice  of  the  oldest  masters  in  their  histo- 
rical pictures.  It  took  a brace  of  Cupids,  with  a halter,  to 
overcome  the  “sweet  reluctant  delay”  of  the  Bride,  and  make 
her  keep  pace  with  the  procession.  She  was  absorbed,  like  a 
nun,  in  her  veil ; tears,  too,  she  dropped,  large  as  sixpences, 
in  her  path ; but  her  attendant  Bridesmaid  put  on  such  a 
coquettish  look,  and  tripped  along  so  airily,  that  it  cured  all 
suspicion  of  heartache  in  such  maiden  showers.  The  Bride- 
groom, dressed  for  the  Honeymoon,  was  ushered  by  Hymen — 
a little  link-boy  ; and  the  imp  used  the  same  importunity  for 
his  dues.  The  next  was  a motley  crew.  For  nuptial  ode,  or 


182 


A MARRIAGE  PROCESSION. 


Carmen.^  there  walked  two  carters,  or  draymen,  with  their 
whips ; a leash  of  footmen  in  livery  indicated  Domestic 
Habits  ! and  Domestic  Comfort  was  personated  by  an  ambu- 
lating advertiser  of  “ Hot  Dinners  every  day,” 

I forget  whether  the  Bride’s  Character  preceded  or  followed 
her ; but  it  was  a lottery  placard,  and  blazoned  her  as  One  of 
Ten  Thousand.  The  parents  of  both  families  had  a quiet 
smile  on  their  faces,  hinting  that  their  enjoyment  was  of  a re- 
trospective cast ; and  as  for  the  six  sisters  of  the  bride,  they 
would  have  wept  with  her,  but  that  six  young  gallants  came 
after  them.  The  friends  of  the  family  were  Quakers,  and 
seemed  to  partake  of  the  happiness  of  the  occasion  in  a very 
quiet  and  Quaker-like  way.  I ought  to  mention  that  a band 
of  harmonious  sweet  music  preceded  the  Happy  Pair.  There 
were  none  came  after — the  veteran,  Townsend,  with  his  con- 
stables, to  keep  order,  making  up  the  rear  of  the  Procession. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  HONEYMOON. 


THE  WIDOW. 


183 


“ENCOMPASa’D  IN  AN  ANGELAS  FRAME.” 


ANE  widow  at  a grave  will  sob 
^ A little  while,  and  weep,  and  sigh  I 
If  two  should  meet  on  such  a job, 

They’ll  have  a gossip  by  and  by. 

If  three  should  come  together — why, 
Three  widows  are  good  company ! 

If  four  should  meet  by  any  chance, 

Four  is  a number  very  nice, 

To  have  a rubber  in  a trice — 

But  five  will  up  and  have  a dance ! 

Poor  Mrs.  C (why  should  I not 

Declare  her  name  ? — her  name  was  Cross) 
Was  one  of  those  the  “ common  lot” 

Had  left  to  weep  “ no  common  loss 


184 


mu:  WIDOW. 


For  she  had  lately  buried  then 
A man,  the  very  best  of  men,” 

A lingering  truth,  discover’d  first 
Whenever  men  “ are  at  the  worst.” 

To  take  the  measure  of  her  woe, 

It  was  some  dozen  inches  deep — 

I mean  in  crape,  and  hung  so  low. 

It  hid  the  drops  she  did  not  weep : 

In  fact,  what  human  life  appears. 

It  was  a perfect  “ veil  of  tears.” 

Though  ever  since  she  lost  “ her  prop 
And  stay,” — alas ! he  wouldn’t  stay — 

She  never  had  a tear  to  mop. 

Except  one  little  angry  drop. 

From  Passion’s  eye,  as  Moore  would  say; 
Because,  when  Mister  Cross  took  flight. 

It  look’d  so  very  like  a spite — 

He  died  upon  a washing-day  ! 

Still  Widow  Cross  went  twice  a week. 

As  if  to  wet  a widow’s  cheek,” 

And  soothe  his  grave  with  sorrow’s  gravy, — 
’Twas  nothing  hut  a make-believe. 

She  might  as  well  have  hop’d  to  grieve 
Enough  of  brine  to  float  a navy ; 

And  yet  she  often  seem’d  to  raise 
A cambric  kerchief  to  her  eye — 

A duster  ought  to  he  the  phrase, 

Its  work  was  all  so  very  dry. 

The  springs  were  lock’d  that  ought  to  flow — 
In  England  or  in  widow- woman — 

As  those  that  watch  the  weather  know. 

Such  “ backward  Springs”  are  not  uncommon. 

But  why  did  Widow  Cross  take  pains, 

To  call  upon  the  ‘‘  dear  remains,” — 

Bemains  that  could  not  tell  a jot, 

Whether  she  ever  wept  or  not, 


THE  WIDOW. 


185 


Or  how  his  relict  took  her  losses  ? 

Oh ! my  black  ink  turns  red  for  shame— 
But  still  the  naughty  world  must  learn, 
There  was  a little  German  came 
To  shed  a tear  in  Anna’s  Urn,” 

At  the  next  grave  to  Mr.  Cross’s ! 

For  there  an  angel’s  virtues  slept, 

“ Too  soon  did  Heaven  assert  its  claim !” 

But  still  her  painted  face  he  kept, 

“ Encompass’d  in  an  angel’s  frame.” 

He  look’d  quite  sad  and  quite  depriv’d, 

His  head  was  nothing  but  a hat-band ; 

He  look’d  so  lone,  and  so  t^/iwiv’d. 

That  soon  the  Widow  Cross  contriv’d 
To  fall  in  love  with  even  that  band ; 

And  all  at  once  the  brackish  juices 
Came  gushing  out  thro’  sorrow’s  sluices — 
Tear  after  tear  too  fast  to  wipe, 

Tho’  sopp’d,  and  sopp’d,  and  sopp’d  again — - 
No  leak  in  sorrow’s  private  pipe. 

But  like  a bursting  on  the  main  ! 

Whoe’er  has  watch’d  the  window-pane — 

I mean  to  say  in  showery  weather — 

Has  seen  two  little  drops  of  rain. 

Like  lovers  very  fond  and  fain,  ' 

At  one  another  creeping,  creeping. 

Till  both,  at  last,  embrace  together : 

So  far’d  it  with  that  couple’s  weej)ing. 

The  principle  was  quite  as  active — 

Tear  unto  tear 
Kept  drawing  near. 

Their  very  blacks  became  attractive. 

To  cut  a shortish  story  shorter. 

Conceive  them  sitting  tete-a-tete — 

Two  cups, — hot  muffins  on  a plate, — • 

With  ^‘Anna’s  Urn”  to  hold  hot  water! 


186 


THE  WIDOW. 


The  brazen  vessel  for  a while, 

Had  lectur’d  in  an  easy  song*, 

Like  Abernethy — on  the  bile — 

The  scalded  herb  was  getting  strong ; 

All  seem’d  as  smooth  as  smooth  could  be, 
To  have  a cosy  cup  of  tea ; 

Alas ! how  often  human  sippers 
With  unexpected  bitters  meet. 

And  buds,  the  sweetest  of  the  sweet. 

Like  sugar,  only  meet  the  nippers ! 

The  Widow  Cross,  I should  have  told. 

Had  seen  three  husbands  to  the  mould ; 

She  never  sought  an  Indian  pyre. 

Like  Hindoo  wives  that  lose  their  loves, 
"But  with  a proper  sense  of  fire. 

Put  up,  instead,  with  “three  removes 
Thus,  when  with  any  tender  words 
Or  tears  she  spoke  about  her  loss. 

The  dear  departed,  Mr.  Cross, 

Came  in  for  nothing  but  his  thirds ; 

For,  as  all  widows  love  too  well. 

She  liked  upon  the  list  to  dwell. 

And  oft  ripp’d  up  the  old  disasters — 

She  might,  indeed,  have  been  suppos’d 
A great  ship  owner,  for  she  pros’d 
Eternally  of  her  Three  Masters ! 

Thus,  foolish  woman ! while  she  nurs’d 
Her  mild  souchong,  she  talk’d  and  reckon’d 
What  had  been  left  her  by  her  first. 

And  by  her  last,  and  by  her  second. 

Alas ! not  all  her  annual  rents 
Could  then  entice  the  little  German — 

Not  Mr.  Cross’s  Three  Per  Cents, 

Or  Consols,  ever  make  him  her  man ; 

He  liked  her  cash,  he  liked  her  houses, 

But  not  that  dismal  bit  of  land 


A MAD  DOG. 


187 


She  always  settled  on  her  spouses. 

So  taking  up  his  hat  and  band, 

Said  he,  “ You’ll  think  my  conduct  odd — 
But  here  my  hopes  no  more  may  linger; 

I thought  you  had  a wedding-finger, 

But  oh ! — it  is  a curtain-rod !” 


IS  none  of  my  bugbears.  Of  the  bite  of  dogs,  large  ones 
especially,  I have  a reasonable  dread ; but  as  to  any  partici- 
pation in  the  canine  frenzy,  I am  somewhat  skeptical.  The 
notion  savours  of  the  same  fanciful  superstition  that  invested 
the  subjects  of  Dr.  Jenner  with  a pair  of  horns.  Such  was 
affirmed  to  be  the  effect  of  the  vaccine  matter  ; and  I shall  be- 
lieve what  1 have  heard  of  the  canine  virus,  when  I see  a rabid 
gentleman,  or  gentlewoman,  with  flap-ears,  dew-claws,  and  a 
brush  tail ! 

I lend  no  credit  to  the  imputed  effects  of  a mad  dog’s  saliva. 
We  hear  of  none  such  amongst  the  West  Indian  Negroes — 
and  yet  their  condition  is  always  slavery. 

I put  no  faith  in  the  vulgar  stories  of  human  beings  beta- 
king themselves,  through  a dog-bite,  to  dog-habits  ; and  con- 
sider the  smotherings  and  drownings,  that  have  originated  in 
that  fancy,  as  cruel  as  the  murders  for  witchcraft.  Are  we, 
for  a few  yelpings,  to  stifle  all  the  disciples  of  Loyola — 
Jesuit’s  Bark — or  plunge  unto  death  all  the  convalescents  who 
may  take  to  bark  and  wine  % 

As  for  the  Hydrophobia,  or  loathing  of  water,  I have  it 
mildly  myself.  My  head  turns  invariably  at  thin  washy  pota- 
tions. With  a dog,  indeed,  the  case  is  different — he  is  a 


188 


A MAD  DOG, 


water-drinker,  and  when  he  takes  to  grape-juice,  or  the  stronger 
cordials,  may  be  dangerous.  But  I have  never  seen  one  with 
a bottle — except  at  his  tail. 

There  are  other  dogs  who  are  born  to  haunt  the  liquid  ele- 
ment to  dive  and  swim,  and  for  such  to  shun  the  lake  or  the 
pond  would  look  suspicious.  A Newfoundlander,  standing  up 
from  a shower  at  a door-way,  or  a Spaniel  with  a Parapluie, 
might  be  innocently  destroyed.  But  when  does  such  a cur 
occur? 


HYDROPHOBIA. 


There  are  persons,  however,  who  lecture  on  Hydrophobia 
very  dogmatically.  It  is  one  of  their  maggots,  that  if  a puppy 
be  not  wormed,  he  is  apt  to  go  rabid.  As  if,  forsooth,  it  made 
so  much  difference,  his  merely  speaking  or  not  with  what 
Lord  Duberley  calls  his  “ vermicular  tongue verily,  as 
Izaak  W alton  would  say,  these  gudgeons  take  the  worm  very 
kindly  ! 


A MAD  DOG, 


189 


Next  to  a neglect  of  calling  in  Dr.  Gardner,  want  of  water 
is  prone  to  drive  a dog  mad.  A reasonable  saying ; but  the 
rest  is  not  so  plausible,  viz.,  that  if  you  keep  a dog  till  he  is 
very  dry,  he  will  refuse  to  drink.  It  is  a gross  libel  on  the 
human-like  instinct  of  the  animal,  to  suppose  him  to  act  so 
clean  contrary  to  human  kind.  A crew  of  sailors,  thirsting 
at  sea,  will  suck  their  pumps  or  the  canvas — any  thing  that 
will  afford  a drop  of  moisture ; whereas  a parching  dog,  in- 
stead of  cooling  his  tongue'  at  the  next  gutter,  or  licking  his 
own  kennel  for  imaginary  relief,  runs  senselessly  up  and  down 
to  overheat  himself,  and  resents  the  offer  of  a bucket  like  a 
mortal  affront.  Away  he  scuds,  straight  forward  like  a mar- 
mot— except  when  he  dodges  a pump.  A glimmering  instinct 
guides  him  to  his  old  haunts.  He  bites  his  ex-master — grips 
his  trainer — takes  a snap  with  a friend  or  two  where  he  used 
to  visit — and  then  biting  right  and  left  at  the  public,  at  last 
dies — a pitchfork  in  his  eye,  fifty  slugs  in  his  ribs,  and  a spade 
through  the  small  of  his  back. 

The  career  of  the  animal  is  but  a type  of  his  victim’s — sup- 
pose some  Bank  Clerk.  He  was  not  bitten,  but  only  splashed 
on  the  hand  by  the  mad  foam  or  dog-spray : a recent  flea-bite 
gives  entrance  to  the  virus,  and  in  less  than  three  years  it  gets 
possession.  Then  the  tragedy  begins.  The  unhappy  gentle- 
man first  evinces  uneasiness  at  being  called  on  for  his  New 
River  rates.  He  answers  the  Collector  snappishly,  and  when 
summoned  to  pay  for  his  supply  of  water,  tells  the  Commis- 
sioners doggedly,  that  they  may  cut  it  off.  From  that  time 
he  gets  worse.  He  refuses  slops — turns  up  a pug-nose  at 
pump-water — and  at  last,  on  a washing  day,  after  flying  at  the 
laundress,  rushes  out,  ripe  for  hunting,  to  the  street.  A 
twilight  remembrance  leads  him  to  the  house  of  his  intended. 
He  fastens  on  her  hand — next  worries  his  mother — takes  a 
bite  apiece  out  of  his  brothers  and  sisters — runs  a-muck. 


190 


A MAD  DOG, 


“giving  tongue,”  all  through  the  suburbs — and,  finally,  is 
smothered  by  a pair  of  bed-beaters  in  Moorfields. 

According  to  popular  theory,  the  mischief  ends  not  here. 
The  dog’s  master — the  trainer — the  friends,  human  and  canine 
— the  Bank  Clerks — the  laundresses — sweetheart — mother  and 
sisters — the  two  bed-beaters — all  inherit  the  rabies,  and  run 
about  to  bite  others.  It  is  a wonder,  the  madness  increasing 
by  this  ratio,  that  examples  are  not  running  in  packs  at  every 
turn : — my  experience,  notwithstanding,  records  but  one  in- 
stance. 

It  was  my  Aunt’s  brute.  His  temper,  latterly,  had  altered 
for  the  worse,  and  in  a sullen,  or  insane  fit,  he  made  a snap  at 
the  cook’s  radish-like  fingers.  The  act  demanded  an  inquest 
De  Lunatico  Inquirendo — he  was  lugged  neck  and  crop  to  a 
full  bucket ; but  you  may  bring  a horse  to  the  water,  says  the 
proverb,  yet  not  make  him  drink,  and  the  cur  asserted  the 
sarne  independence.  To  make  sure,  Betty  cast  the  whole 
gallon  over  him,  a favour  that  he  received  with  a mood  that 
would  have  been  natural  in  any  mortal.  His  growl  was  con- 
clusive. The  cook  alarmed,  first  the  family,  and  then  the 
neighbourhood,  which  poured  all  its  males  capable  of  bearing 
arms  into  the  passage.  There  were  sticks,  staves,  swords,  and 
a gun ; a prong  or  two,  moreover,  glistened  here  and  there. 
The  kitchen-door  was  occupied  by  the  first  rank  of  the  column, 
their  weapons  all  bristling  in  advance ; and  right  opposite — 
at  the  further  side  of  the  kitchen,  and  holding  all  the  army  at 
t)ay — stood  Hydrophobia — “ in  its  most  dreadful  form  !” 

Conceive,  Mulready  ! under  this  horrible  figure  of  speech, 
a round,  goggle-eyed  pug-face,  supported  by  two  stumpy 
bandy-legs — the  forelimbs  of  a long,  pampered,  sausage-like 
body,  that  rested  on  a similar  pair  of  crotchets  at  the  other 
end  ! Not  without  short  wheezy  pan  tings,  he  began  to  waddle 
towards  the  guarded  entry — but  before  he  had  accomplished 


A MAY- DAY, 


191 


a quarter  of  the  distance,  there  resounded  the  report  of  a 
musket.  The  poor  Turnspit  gave  a yell — the  little  brown 
bloated  body  tumbled  over,  pierced  by  a dozen  slugs,  but  not 
mortally ; for  before  the  piece  could  be  reloaded,  he  contrived 
to  lap  up  a little  pool — from  Betty’s  bucket — that  had  settled 
beside  the  hearth. 


% Ps-Jias. 

I KNOW  not  what  idle  schemer  or  mad  wag  put  such  a 
folly  in  the  head  of  my  Lady  Kasherly,  but  she  resolved 
to  celebrate  a May-day  after  the  old  fashion,  and  convert 
Porkington  Park — her  Hampshire  Leasowes — into  a new 
Arcadia.  Such  revivals  have  always  come  to  a bad  end : the 
Golden  Age  is  not  to  be  regilt ; Pastoral  is  gone  out,  and  Pan 
extinct — Pans  will  not  last  for  ever. 

But  Lady  Rasherly’s  fete  was  fixed.  A large  order  was 
sent  to  Ingram,  of  rustic  celebrity,  for  nubbly  sofas  and 
crooked  chairs ; a letter  was  despatched  to  the  Manager  of 
the  P h Theatre,  begging  a loan  from  the  dramatic  ward- 

robe ; and  old  Jenkins,  the  steward,  was  sent  through  the 
village  to  assemble  as  many  male  and  female,  of  the  barn- 
door kind,  as  he  could  muster.  Happy  for  the  Lady,  had 
her  Hampshire  peasantry  been  more  pig-headed  and  hoggishly 
un tractable,  like  the  staple  animal  of  the  county : but  the 
time  came  and  the  tenants.  Happy  for  her,  had  the  good- 
natured  m anager  excused  himself,  with  a plea  that  the  cottage 
hats  and  blue  boddices  and  russet  skirts  were  bespoke,  for 
that  very  night,  by  Rosina  and  her  villagers:  but  the  day 


192 


A MAY-DAY, 


came  and  the  dresses.  I am  told  that  old  Jenkins  and  his 
helpmate  had  a world  of  trouble  in  the  distribution  of  the 
borrowed  plumes:  this  maiden  turning  up  a pug-nose,  still 
pugger,  at  a faded  boddice ; that  damsel  thrusting  out  a pair 
of  original  pouting  lips,  still  more  spout-like,  at  a rusty  rib- 
bon; carroty  Celias  wanted  more  roses  in  their  hair,  and 
dumpy  Delias  more  flounces  in  their  petticoats.  There  is  a 
natural  tact,  however,  in  womankind  as  to  matters  of  dress, 
that  made  them  look  tolerably,  when  all  was  done  : but  pray 
except  from  this  praise  the  gardener’s  daughter,  Dolly  Blos- 
som,— a born  sloven,  with  her  horticultural  hose,  which  she 
had  'pruned  so  often  at  top  to  graft  at  bottom,  that,  from  long 
stockings,  they  had  dwindled  into  short  socks  ; and  it  seemed 
as  if,  by  a similar  process,  she  had  coaxed  her  natural  calves 
into  her  ankles.  The  men  were  less  fortunate  in  their  toilette : 
they  looked  slack  in  their  tights,  and  tight  in  their  slacks ; to 
say  nothing  of  Johnny  Giles,  who  was  so  tight  all  over,  that 
he  looked  as  if  he  had  stolen  his  clothes,  and  the  clothes,  turn- 
ing King’s  evidence,  were  going  to  “ split  upon  him.” 

In  the  mean  time,  the  retainers  at  the  Park  had  not  been 
idle.  The  old  mast  was  taken  down  from  the  old  barn,  and, 
stripped  of  its  weathercock,  did  duty  as  a May-pole.  The 
trees  and  shrubs  were  hung  with  artificial  garlands ; and  a 
large  marquee  made  an  agreeable  contrast,  in  canvas,  with 
the  long  lawn.  An  extempore  wooden  arbour  had  likewise 
been  erected  for  the  May  Queen ; and  here  stood  my  Lady 
Rasherly  with  her  daughters:  my  Lady,  with  a full-moon 
face,  and  a half-moon  tiara,  was  Diana ; the  young  ladies  rep 
resented  her  Nymphs,  and  they  had  all  bows  and  arrows, 
Spanish  hats  and  feathers,  Lincoln-green  spencers  and  slashed 
sleeves, — the  uniform  of  the  Porkington  Archery.  There 
were,  moreover,  six  younger  young  ladies — a loan  from  the 
parish  school — who  were  to  be  the  immediate  attendants  on 


A MAY- DAY, 


193 


her  Sylvan  Majesty,  and,  as  they  expressed  it  in  their  own 
simple  Doric,  “ to  shy  flowers  at  her  fut  /” 

And  now  the  nymphs  and  swains  began  to  assemble : 
Damon  and  Phillis,  Strephon  and  Amaryllis — a nomenclature 
not  a little  puzzling  to  the  performers,  for  Delia  answered  to 
Damon,  and  Chloe  instead  of  Colin, — 

And,  though  I called  another,  Abra  came.’* 

But  I must  treat  you  with  a few  personalities.  Damon 
was  one  Darius  Dobbs.  He  was  entrusted  with  a fine  tinsel 
crook,  and  half-a-dozen  sheep,  which  he  was  puzzled  to  keep, 
by  hook  or  by  crook,  to  the  lawn ; for  Cory  don,  his  fellow- 
shepherd,  had  quietly  hung  up  his  pastoral  emblem,  and 
walked  off  to  the  sign  of  the  Rose  and  Crown.  Poor  Damon ! 
there  he  sat,  looking  the  very  original  of  Phillips’s  line, — 

Ah,  silly  I,  more  silly  than  my  sheep,” — 

and,  to  add  to  his  perplexity,  he  could  not  help  seeing  and 
hearing  Mary  Jenks,  his  own  sweetheart,  who,  having  no 
lambs  to  keep,  was  romping  where  she  would,  and  treating 
whom  she  would  with  a kindness  by  no  means  sneaking. 
Poor  Darius  Dobbs ! 

Gregory  Giles  was  Colin  ; and  he  was  sadly  hampered 
with  “ two  hands  out  of  employ  for,  after  feeling  up  his 
back  and  down  his  bosom  and  about  his  hips,  he  had  dis- 
covered that,  to  save  time  and  trouble,  his  stage-clothes  had 
been  made  without  pockets.  But 

“ Satan  finds  some  mischief  still 
For  idle  hands  to  do 

and,  accordingly,  he  soon  set  Colin’s  fingers  to  work  so  busily, 
that  they  twiddled  off  all  the  buttons  fi'om  his  borrowed 
jacket. 

Strephon  was  nothing  particular,  only  a sky-blue  body  on 
9 


194 


A MAY-DAY, 


a pair  of  chocolate-coloured  legs.  But  Lubiii  was  a jewel ! 
He  had  formerly  been  a private  in  the  Baconfield  Yeomanry, 
and  therefore  thought  proper  to  surmount  his  pastoral  uniform 
with  a cavalry  cap  ! Such  an  incongruity  was  not  to  be  over- 
looked. Old  Jenkins  remonstrated,  but  Lubin  was  obstinate ; 
the  steward  persisted,  and  the  other  replied  with  a “ positive 
negative and,  in  the  end,  Lubin  went  off  in  a huff  to  the 
Eose  and  Crown. 

The  force  of  two  bad  examples  was  too  much  for  the  virtue 
of  Darius  Dobbs  : he  threw  away  his  crook,  left  his  sheep  to 
any  body,  and  ran  off  to  the  ale-house,  and,  what  was  worse, 
Colin  was  sent  after  him,  and  never  came  back ! 


A MAY-DUKE. 


-The  chief  of  the  faith! ul  shepherds,  who  now  refnali’*ed  at 


A MAY-DAY, 


195 


the  Park,  was  Ilobbinol — one  Josias  Strong,  a notorious 
glutton,  who  had  won  sundry  wagers  by  devouring  a leg  of 
mutton  and  trimmings  at  a sitting.  He  was  a big  lubberly 
fellow,  that  had  been  born  great,  and  had  achieved  greatness, 
but  had  not  greatness  thrust  upon  him.  It  was  as  much  as  he 
could  do  to  keep  his  trowsers — for  he  was  at  once  clown  and 
pantaloon — down  to  the  knee,  and  more  than  he  could  do  to 
keep  them  up  to  the  waist ; and,  to  crown  all,  having  rashly 
squatted  down  on  the  lawn,  the  juicy  herbage  had  left  a stain 
behind,  on  his  calimancoes,  that  still  occupies  the  ‘‘  greenest 
spot”  in  the  memoirs  of  Baconfield. 

There  were  some  half-dozen  of  other  rustics  to  the  same 
pattern ; but  the  fancy  of  my  Lady  Rasherly  did  not  confine 
itself  to  the  humanities.  Old  Joe  Bradley,  the  blacksmith, 
was  Pan  ; and  truly  he  made  a respectable  satyr  enough,  for 
he  came  half  drunk,  and  was  rough,  gruff,  tawny  and  brawny, 
and  bow-legged,  and  hadn’t  been  shaved  for  a month.  His 
cue  was  to  walk  about  in  buckskins,  leading  his  own  billy- 
goat,  and  he  was  followed  up  and  down  by  his  sister  Patty, 
whom  the  wags  called  Patty  Pan, 

The  other  Deity  was  also  a wet  one — a triton  amongst 
mythologists,  but  Timothy  Gubbins  with  his  familiars, — the 
acknowledged  dolt  of  the  village,  and  remarkable  for  his 
weekly  slumbers  in  the  parish  church.  It  had  been  ascer- 
tained that  he  could  neither  pipe,  nor  sing,  nor  dance,  nor 
even  keep  sheep,  so  he  was  stuck  with  an  urn  under  his  arm, 
and  a rush  crown,  as  the  God  of  the  fish-pond, — a task,  simple 
as  it  was,  that  proved  beyond  his  genius,  for,  after  stupidly 
dozing  a while  over  his  vase,  he  fell  into  a sound  snoring  sleep, 
out  of  which  he  cold-pigged  himself  by  tumbling,  urn  and  all, 
into  his  own  fountain. 

Misfortunes  always  come  pick-a-back.  The  Pose  and 
Crown  happened  to  be  a receiving-house  for  the  drowned, 


19G 


A MAY-DAY. 


under  the  patronage  of  the  Humane  Society,  wherefore  the 
Water  God  insisted  on  going  there  to  he  dried ; and  Cuddy, 
who  pulled  him  out,  insisted  on  going  with  him  ! These  two 
had  certainly  some  slight  excuse  for  walking  off  to  the  ale- 
house, whereas  Sylvio  thought  proper  to  follow  them  without 
any  excuse  at  all ! 

This  mischance  was  but  the  prelude  of  new  disasters.  It 
was  necessary,  before  beginning  the  sports  of  the  day,  to 
elect  a May  Queen,  and,  by  the  influence  of  Lady  Easherly, 
the  choice  of  the  lieges  fell  upon  Jenny  Acres,  a really  pretty 
maiden,  and  worthy  of  the  honour ; but,  in  the  mean  time, 
Dolly  Wiggins,  a brazen  strapping  dairy-maid,  had  quietly 
elected  herself, — snatched  a flower-basket  from  one  of  the  six 
Floras,  strewed  her  own  path,  and,  getting  first  to  the  royal 
arbour,  squatted  there  firm  and  fast,  and  persisted  in  reigning 
as  Queen  in  her  own  right.  Hence  arose  civil  and  uncivil 
war, — and  Alexis  and  Diggon,  being  interrupted  in  a boxing 
match  in  the  Park,  adjourned  to  the  Rose  and  Crown  to  have 
it  out ; and  as  two  can’t  make  a ring,  a round  dozen  of  the 
shepherds  went  along  with  them  for  that  purpose. 

There  now  remained  but  five  swains  in  Arcadia,  and  they 
had  five  nymphs  apiece,  besides  Mary  Jenks,  who  divided  her 
favour  equally  amongst  them  all.  There  should  have  been 
next  in  order  a singing  match  on  the  lawn,  for  a prize,  after 
the  fashion  of  Pope’s  Pastorals  ; but  Cory  don,  one  of  the 
warblers,  had  bolted,  and  Palemon,  who  remained,  had  for- 
gotten what  was  set  down  for  him,  though  he  obligingly  of- 
fered to  sing  “ Tom  Bowling”  instead.  But  Lady  Rasherly 
thought  proper  to  dispense  with  the  song,  and  there  being 
nothing  else,  or  better,  to  do,  she  directed  a movement  to  the 
marquee,  in  order  to  begin,  though  somewhat  early,  on  the 
collation.  Alas ! even  this  was  a failure.  During  the  time 
of  Gubbins’s  ducking,  the  Queen’s  coronation,  and  the  box- 


A MAY-DAY, 


107 


ing  match,  Ilobbinol,  that  great  greedy  lout,  had  been  pri- 
vily in  the  pavilion,  glutting  his  constitutional  voracity  on  the 
substantials,  and  he  was  now  lying  insensible  and  harmless, 
like  a gorged  boa  constrictor,  by  the  side  of  the  table.  Pan, 
too,  had  been  missing,  and  it  was  thought  he  was  at  the  Pose 
and  Crown, — but  no  such  luck  ! He  had  been  having  a sly 
pull  at  the  tent  tankards,  and  from  half  drunk  had  got  so 
whole  drunk,  that  he  could  not  hinder  his  goat  from  having  a 
butt  even  at  Diana  herself,  nor  from  entangling  his  horns  in 
the  table-cloth,  by  which  the  catastrophe  of  the  collation  was 
completed ! 

The  rest  of  the  fete  consisted  of  a succession  of  misfortunes 
which  it  would  be  painful  to  dwell  upon,  and  cruel  to  des- 
cribe minutely.  So  I will  but  hint,  briefly,  how  the  fragments 
of  the  banquet  were  scrambled  for  by  the  Arcadians — how 
they  danced  afterwards  round  the  May-pole,  not  tripping 
themselves  like  fairies,  but  tripping  one  another — how  the 
Honourable  Miss  Rasherly,  out  of  idleness,  stood  fitting  the 
notch  of  an  arrow  to  the  string — and  how  the  shaft  went  off 
of  itself,  and  lodged,  unluckily,  in  the  calf  of  one  of  the  caper- 
ers.  I will  leave  to  the  imagination,  what  suits  were  torn 
past  mending,  or  soiled  beyond  washing — the  lamentations  of 
old  Jenkins — and  the  vows  of  Lady  Rasherly  and  daughters, 
that  there  should  be  no  more  May -days  at  Porkington.  Suf- 
fice it,  that  night  found  all  the  Arcadians  at  the  Rose  and 
Grown:  and  on  the  morrow,  Diana  and  her  Nymphs  were 
laid  up  with  severe  colds — Dolly  Wiggins  was  out  of  place 
— Hobbinol  in  a surfeit — Alexis  before  a magistrate — Pale- 
mon  at  a surgeon’s— Billy  in  the  pound — and  Pan  in  the 
stocks,  with  the  fumes  of  last  night’s  liquor  not  yet  evapo- 
rated from  his  gray  gooseberry  eyes. 


198 


ODE  TO  THE  CAMELEOFARD. 


WHITE  BAIT. 


(Bk  to  t|c 

‘'y^ELCOME  to  Freedom’s  birthplace — and  a den ! 
' * Great  Anti-climax,  hail ! 

So  very  lofty  in  thy  front — hut  then, 

So  dwindling  at  the  tail ! — 

In  truth,  thou  hast  the  most  unequal  legs ! 

Has  one  pair  gallopp’d,  whilst  the  other  trotted, 
Along  with  other  brethren,  leopard-spotted. 

O’er  Afric  sand,  where  ostriches  lay  eggs  ? 

Sure  thou  wert  caught  in  some  hard  up-hill  chase, 
Those  hinder  heels  still  keeping  thee  in  check ! 

And  yet  thou  seem’st  prepar’d  in  any  case, 
Tho’  they  had  lost  the  race. 

To  win  it  by  a neck ! 


ODE  TO  THE  CAMELEOPARD. 


199 


That  lengthy  neck — how  like  a crane’s  it  looks ! 
Art  thou  the  overseer  of  all  the  brutes  ? 

Or  dost  thou  browse  on  tip-top  leaves  or  fruits — 
Or  go  a-birdnesting  amongst  the  rooks  ? 

How  kindly  nature  eaters  for  all  wants ; 

Thus  giving  unto  thee  a neck  that  stretches, 

And  high  food  fetches — 

To  some  a long  nose,  like  the  elephant’s ! 


AFKICAN  WKECKEES. 


Oh ! hadst  thou  any  organ  to  thy  bellows, 

To  turn  thy  breath  to  speech  in  human  style, 
What  secrets  thou  mightst  tell  us, 
Where  now  our  scientific  guesses  fail; 

For  instance,  of  the  Nile, 

Whether  those  Seven  Mouths  have  any  tail — 
Mayhap  thy  luck  too, 

From  that  high  head,  as  from  a lofty  hill, 


200 


ODE  TO  TEE  CAMELEOPARD. 


Has  let  thee  see  the  marvellous  Timbuctoo — 

Or  drink  of  Niger  at  its  infant  rill ; 

What  were  the  travels  of  our  Major  Denham, 

Or  Clapperton,  to  thine 
In  that  same  line, 

If  thou  couldst  only  squat  thee  down  and  pen  ’em ! 

Strange  sights,  indeed,  thou  must  have  overlook’d. 
With  eyes  held  ever  in  such  vantage-stations ! 

Hast  seen,  perchance,  unhappy  white  folks  cook’d. 
And  then  made  free  of  negro  corporations  ! 

Poor  wretches  saved  from  cast-away  three-deckers^ 
By  sooty  wreckers — 

Prom  hungry  waves  to  have  a loss  still  drearier. 

To  far  exceed  the  utmost  aim  of  Park ! 

And  find  themselves,  alas ! beyond  the  mark, 

In  the  insides  of  Africa’s  Interior ! 


UNCONSCIOUS  IMITATION. 


ODE  TO  DOCTOR  ILATmEMANK 


201 


Live  on,  Giraffe ! genteelest  of  raff  kind ! 
Admir’d  by  noble,  and  by  royal  tongues  ! 

May  no  pernicious  wind. 

Or  English  fog,  blight  thy  exotie  lungs ! 

Live  on  in  happy  peace,  altho’  a rarity, 

Nor  envy  thy  poor  eousin’s  more  outrageous 
Parisian  popularity ; — 

Whose  very  leopard-rash  is  grown  contagious, 
And  worn  on  gloves  and  ribbons  all  about, 
Alas ! they’ll  wear  him  out ! — 

So  thou  shalt  take  thy  sweet  diurnal  feeds — 
When  he  is  stuffed  with  undigested  straw, 

Sad  food  that  never  visited  his  jaw ! 

And  staring  round  him  with  a brace  of  beads ! 


T^ELL,  Doctor, 

' ^ Great  concoctor 
Of  medicines  to  help  in  man’s  distress  ; 

Diluting  down  the  strong  to  meek. 

And  making  ev’n  the  weak  more  weak, 
“ Fine  by  degrees,  and  beautifully  less  ” — 
Founder  of  a new  system  economic. 

To  druggists  any  thing  but  comic ; 
Fram’d  the  whole  race  of  Ollapods  to  fret. 

At  profits,  like  thy  doses,  very  small ; 

To  put  all  Doctors’  Boys  in  evil  case. 

Thrown  out  of  bread,  of  physic,  and  of  place, — 
And  show  us  old  Apothecaries’  Hall 
To  Let.” 

9^ 


202 


ODE  TO  DOCTOR  IIAHEEMANIT. 


How  fare  thy  Patients  ? are  they  dead  or  living, 
Or,  well  as  can  expected  be,  with  such 
A style  of  practice,  liberally  giving 
A sum  of  more  to  that  which  had  too  much 
Dost  thou  preserve  the  human  frame,  or  turf  it  ? 
Do  thorough  draughts  cure  thorough  colds  or  not  ? 

Do  fevers  yield  to  any  thing  that^s  hot  ? 

Or  hearty  dinners  neutralize  a surfeit  ? 

Is^t  good  advice  for  gastronomic  ills. 

When  Indigestion’s  face  with  pain  is  crumpling. 
To  cry,  “ Discard  those  Peristaltic  Pills, 

Take  a hard  dumpling  ?” 

Tell  me,  thou  German  Cousin, 

And  tell  me  honestly  without  a diddle. 

Does  an  attenuated  dose  of  rosin 

Act  as  a tonic  on  the  old  Scotch  fiddle  f 

Tell  me,  when  Anhalt- Coe  then  babies  wriggle, 

Like  eels  just  caught  by  sniggle. 

Martyrs  to  some  acidity  internal. 

That  gives  them  pangs  infernal. 

Meanwhile  the  lip  grows  black,  the  eye  enlarges ; 
Say,  comes  there  all  at  once  a cherub-calm, 

Thanks  to  that  soothing  homoeopathic  balm, 

The  half  of  half,  of  half,  a drop  of  varges 


Suppose,  for  instance,  upon  Leipzig’s  plain, 

A soldier  pillow’d  on  a heap  of  slain, 

In  urgent  want  both  of  a priest  and  proctor. ; 
When  lo  ! there  comes  a man  in  green  and  red, 
A featherless  cock’d-hat  adorns  his  head. 

In  short,  a Saxon  military  doctor — 

Would  he,  indeed,  on  the  right  treatment  fix, 
To  cure  a horrid  gaping  wound. 

Made  by  a ball  that  weigh’d  a pound, 

If  he  well  pepper’d  it  with  number  six  ? 


ODB  TO  DOCTOR  IIAIIJSfEMANK 


203 


Suppose  a felon  doomed  to  swing 
Within  a ropCf 
Might  friends  not  hope 
To  cure  him  with  a string  f 
Suppose  his  breath  arriv’d  at  a full  stop, 

The  shades  of  death  in  a black  cloud  before  him, 
Would  a quintillionth  dose  of  the  New  Drop 
Restore  him  ? 

Fancy  a man  gone  rabid  from  a bite, 

Snapping  to  left  and  right, 

And  giving  tongue  like  one  of  Sebright’s  hounds. 
Terrific  sounds, 

The  pallid  neighbourhood  with  horror  cowing, 

To  hit  the  proper  homoeopathic  mark  ; 

Now,  might  not  “ the  last  taste  in  life”  of  harJc^ 
Stop  his  how-wow-ing  ? 

Nay,  with  a well-known  remedy  to  fit  him, 
Would  he  not  mend,  if,  with  all  proper  care, 

He  took  “ a hair 
Of  the  dog  that  hit  him  ?” 

Picture  a man — we’ll  say  a Dutch  Meinheer— 

In  evident  emotion, 

Bent  o’er  the  bulwark  of  the  Batavier, 

Owning  those  symptoms  queer — 

Some  feel  in  a Side  Transit  o’er  the  ocean, 

Can  any  thing  in  life  be  more  pathetic 
Than  when  he  turns  to  us  his  WTetched  face  ? — 
But  would  it  mend  his  case 
To  be  decillionth-dos’d 
With  something  like  the  ghost 
Of  an  emetic  ? 

Lo  ! now  a darken’d  room  ! 

Look  through  the  di’eary  gloom, 

And  see  that  coveBlet  of  wildest  form, 

Tost  like  the  billows  in  a storm, 


204 


ODE  TO  DOCTOR  EAENEMANK 


Where  ever  and  anon,  with  groans,  emerges 
A ghastly  head  ! — 

While  two  impatient  arms  still  beat  the  bed. 

Like  a strong  swimmer’s  struggling  with  the  surges 
There  Life  and  Death  are  on  their  battle-plain, 
With  many  a mortal  ecstasy  of  pain — 

What  shall  support  the  body  in  its  trial. 

Cool  the  hot  blood,  wild  dream,  and  parching  skin, 
And  tame  the  raging  Malady  within — 

A sniff  of  Next-to-Nothing  in  a phial  ? 

Oh ! Doctor  Hahnemann,  if  here  I laugh, 

And  cry  together,  half  and  half. 

Excuse  me,  ’tis  a mood  the  subject  brings. 

To  think,  whilst  I have  crow’d  like  chanticleer. 
Perchance,  from  some  dull  eye  the  hopeless  tear 
Hath  gush’d  with  my  light  levity  at  schism. 

To  mourn  some  Martyr  of  Empiricism 
Perchance,  on  thy  system,  I have  giv’n 
A pang,  superfluous  to  the  pains  of  Sorrow, 

Who  weeps  with  Memory  from  morn  till  even ; 
WTiere  comfort  there  is  none  to  lend  or  borrow, 
Sighing  to  one  sad  strain, 

‘‘  She  will  not  come  again. 

To-morrow,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  to-morrow  1” 

Doctor,  forgive  me,  if  I dare  prescribe 
A rule  for  thee  thyself,  and  all  thy  tribe. 

Inserting  a few  serious  words  by  stealth ; 

Above  all  price  of  wealth 
The  Bodfs  Jewels — not  for  minds  profane. 

Or  hands,  to  tamper  with  in  practice  vain — 

Like  to  a Woman's  Virtue  is  Ma7i's  Health. 

A heavenly  gift  within  a holy  shrine  ! 

To  he  approach'd  and  touch'd  with  serious  fear. 

By  hands  made  pure,  and  hearts  of  faith  severe, 

Ev'n  as  the  Priesthood  of  the  ONE  divine  I 


ODE  TO  DOCTOR  HAHNEMANN. 


205 


But,  zounds ! each  fellow  with  a suit  of  black, 

And,  strange  to  fame. 

With  a diploma’d  name. 

That  carries  two  more  letters  pick-a-back. 

With  cane,  and  snuJffbox,  powder’d  wig,  and  block. 
Invents  his  dose,  as  if  it  were  a chrism, 

And  dares  to  treat  our  wondrous  mechanism. 

Familiar  as  the  works  of  old  Dutch  clock ; 

Yet,  how  would  common  sense  esteem  the  man. 

Oh  how,  my  unrelated  German  cousin, 

Who  having  some  such  time-keeper  on  trial. 

And  finding  it  too  fast,  enforc’d  the  dial. 

To  strike  upon  the  Homoeopathic  plan 
Of  fourteen  to  the  dozen. 

Take  my  advice,  ’tis  giv’n  without  a fee. 

Drown,  drown  your  book  ten  thousand  fathoms  deep. 
Like  Prospero’s  beneath  the  briny  sea. 

For  spells  of  magic  have  all  gone  to  sleep ! 

Leave  no  decillionth  fragment  of  your  works. 

To  help  the  interest  of  quacking  Burkes  ; 

Aid  not  in  murdering  ev’n  widows’  mites, — 

And  now  forgive  me  for  my  candid  zeal, 

I had  not  said  so  much,  but  that  I feel 
Should  you  take  ill  what  here  my  Muse  indites. 

An  Ode-ling  more  will  set  you  all  to  rights. 


206 


THE  FBESH  HO  BSE. 


STONE  HENGE  has  always  been  a mystery  to  Antiqua- 
rians, and  a puzzle  to  mechanics  and  engineers  to  conceive 
how  such  huge  masses  of  stone  were  transported,  and  erected, 
in  their  celebrated  locality.  Eor  my  own  part,  I am  no  anti- 
quarian, but  I fully  shared  in  the  surprise  of  the  practical  men, 
on  one  day  discovering  a Quaker,  seated  in  a four-wheel 
chaise,  without  any  horse,  in  the  middle  of  Salisbury  Plain. 
It  was  a matter  of  course  to  stare  at  him  as  at  a fly  in  amber, 
and  “ wonder  how  the  devil  he  got  there.”  A member  of 
the  society  of  Friends,  could  hardly  look  for  friends  in  such 
a place ; a Quaker  might  sit  long  enough  in  such  a region, 
however  silent,  without  any  hope  of  a Quaker’s  meeting : it 
seemed,  however,  to  be  a matter  of  familiar  occurrence  to  the 
gentleman  in  drab,  who  sat  as  placid  and  unconcerned  in  his 
vehicle,  as  if  he  had  been  at  the  desk  of  a snug  counting-house 
in  Mincing  Lane.  Instead  of  a Price  Current,  he  held  in  his 
hand  a slender  pamphlet,  which  was  probably  a religious 
tract,  for  whenever  his  eyes  left  the  paper,  they  invariably 
took  an  upward  look,  before  taking  a sweep  of  the  wide 
verdant  horizon.  At  the  first  glance  it  occurred  to  me  that 
his  horse  had  bolted ; but  a nearer  examination  corrected  my 
error  : the  collar  was  lying  on  the  ground ; the  long  reins  be- 
side it : the  shafts  were  whole,  and  uninjured ; not  a single 
strap  was  broken,  but  regularly  unbuckled.  I felt  completely 
in  the  dark.  Horses  are  occasionally  taken  out  of  carriages, 
when  the  mob  is  in  the  humour  to  act  as  their  substitutes  ; but 
Salisbury  Plain  is  perhaps  the  very  last  place  in  England  for 


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0 J o{t.t 

^7911X80 


THE  FRESH  HORSE. 


207 


one  to  look  for  popularity.  Determined  to  fathom  the  mys- 
tery, I rode  up  to  the  phenomenon,  and,  with  a polite  apology, 
begged  to  tender  my  best  services,  in  a case  I could  not  help 
fearing  was  one  of  emergency.  The  offer  was  well  received, 
but  my  assistance  declined  in  the  quiet  and  laconic  style  sup- 
posed to  be  peculiar  to  the  taciturn  sect  which  owns  Fox  for 
its  founder. 

“ I thank  thee,  friend, — but  there  is  no  need.” 

“ I am  happy  to  hear  it,”  I replied,  “ I was  in  fear ” 

“ Friend,  we  ought  to  fear  nothing  but  sin.” 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but ” 

“ Thou  hast  not  offended.” 

“ It  occurred  to  me,  that  possibly  your  present  position  was 

the  result  of  some  accident ” 

Friend,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  accident: — all  is  Provi- 
dence P 

I confess  I felt  rather  skeptical  on  the  subject ; there  seemed 
so  little  of  a heavenly  dispensation  in  being  planted  in  his 
peculiar  situation.  I could  not  help  thinking,  that  if  one 
might  desire  a blessing,  ten  thousand  worldly  advantages 
were  preferable  to  the  doubtful  one  of  sitting  in  a chaise, 
without  a horse,  in  such  a vicinity.  In  the  mean  time,  the 
Quaker  resumed  his  reading ; and  gave  me  leisure  to  look 
all  round,  with  the  inward  conviction  of  seeing  some  stout, 
sedate,  elderly  nag  grazing  soberly,  by  permission,  on  the 
abundant  herbage.  I was  still  mistaken;  there  was  nothing 
to  be  seen,  excepting  a few  sheep,  within  the  whole  range  of 
the  horizon.  My  curiosity  increased ; I could  neither  make  up 
my  mind  to  ride  off,  nor  to  again  accost  the  taciturn  Quaker, 
who  seemed  more  deeply  absorbed  than  ever  in  his  tract. 
At  last,  as  he  paused,  apparently  to  digest  the  contents  of  the 
last  page  he  had  been  reading,  I ventured  on  a fresh  attack. 

“ I am  afraid,  sir,  that  while  you  have  been  engaged  with 


208 


THE  FRESH  HORSE, 


your  book,  your  horse  has  strayed  farther  off  than  you  are 
aware  of.” 

“ I thank  thee,  friend,”  said  the  man  of  few  words,  turning 
over  a new  leaf, — “ my  horse  is  in  sure  hands ;” — and  again 
he  buried  his  mind  in  the  pamphlet.  Quaker  as  he  was,  I 
felt  somewhat  piqued  at  his  quietism,  and  accordingly  deter- 
mined to  oblige  him  to  speak  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

“ Possibly,  sir,”  said  I,  “ your  horse  has  cast  a shoe,  and 
you  have  sent  him  to  the  next  blacksmith’s  ]” 

The  Quaker  read  on. 

“ If  so,”  I continued,  “ I congratulate  you  on  possessing  a 
book  to  amuse  your  leisure.” 

No  answer. 

“I  wish” — raising  my  voice — “that  I could  anticipate 
better  weather  for  you,  sir,  than  the  clouds  seem  to  threaten. 
I’m  very  much  afraid  we  shall  have  a storm.” 

Still  mute  as  a fish. 

“ It  was  once  my  misfortune,”  said  I,  getting  quite  pro- 
voked, “ to  be  caught  in  one,  just  about  this  very  spot : — and 
I assure  you,  sir,  it  was  very  far  from  pleasant.” 

Mum  as  ever. 

“ What  was  worse,  sir,  I got  benighted ; — and  there  can’t 
be  a wretcheder  place  in  all  England  for  such  a dilemma.  I 
was  six  hours  adrift,  at  the  very  least,  on  this  infernal  waste.” 

I might  as  well  have  talked  to  Stone  Henge  itself.  The 
perverse  Foxite  kept  his  lips  hermetically  sealed;  and  I had 
gathered  up  the  reins,  turned  my  horse’s  head,  and  was  about 
to  ride  off  in  a huff,  when  his  voice  unexpectedly  saluted  me. 

“ Friend,  I wish  thee  a good  journey.” 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  according  to  the  common 
rejoinder,  to  “ wish  him  the  same but  the  absurdity  was 
too  palpable,  considering  his  means  of  travelling ; and  as  it 
was  a question  of  some  difficulty  what  aspiration  to  offer, 


THE  FEESTl  HORSE. 


209 


under  such  circumstances,  I found  myself  reduced  to  a very 
awkward  silence.  In  the  days  or  realms  of  enchantment,  it 
would  have  been  otherwise;  for  instance,  one  might  have 
wished  him  a pair  of  flying  dragons,  or  a team  of  peacocks, 
or  turned  half-a-dozen  of  the  field-mice  into  as  many  cream- 
coloured  Arabians ; — but  as  wishing  has  lost  all  magical 
power,  I was  just  on  the  point  of  merely  lifting  my  hat,  as  a 
farewell  courtesy,  when  he  again  addressed  me. 

“Friend,  shouldst  thou  meet  the  man  who  hath  my  horse, 
I will  thank  thee  to  bid  him  make  good  speed  with  the  work 
in  hand.” 

“ With  the  greatest  pleasure,  sir,  provided  you  wdll  favour 
me  with  the  means  of  recognising  them.” 

“ Friend,  thou  canst  not  err.  The  brute  creature  hath 
three  white  legs, — with  what  is  called  a blaze  on  his  fore- 
head,— and  a long  tail,  undocked  by  the  cruel  abomination  of 
shears.  Respecting  the  rider,  I cannot  speak,  seeing  that  I 
did  not  take  the  particulars  of  his  outward  man.” 

“ I think,  sir,  I should  know  your  horse  : — but  is  it  possi- 
ble, my  good  sir,  you  can  have  entrusted  him  to  an  utter 
stranger  f’ 

“ Thou  shalt  hear,  friend,” — and  stowing  away  his  book, 
clasping  his  hands  over  his  waistcoat,  and  twirling  his  thumbs 
round  each  other,  the  Quaker  began  his  relation.  The  boy 
Jonathan,  he  said,  had  lately  been  sorely  extravagant  in  the 
articles  of  oats  and  beans  for  his  horse,  whereof  followed  not 
only  waste  and  cost,  but  likewise  the  brute  creature,  accord- 
ing to  the  Scripture,  waxed  fat  and  kicked.  Whence  it  came 
to  pass,  amongst  other  trials  and  sufferings,  for  the  head- 
strong spirit  of  viciousness  to  possess  itself  so  powerfully  of 
the  horse,  just  at  midway  of  his  journey,  there  or  thereabouts, 
as  to  be  beyond  all  controlling  with  the  leather  contrivances. 
Whereupon  he  had  resigned  himself  inwardly  to  the  power 


210 


TEE  FEESH  HORSE. 


of  grace,  which  had  sent  present  help  in  need,  namely,  by 
raising  up  a man  out  of  a bush,  an  utter  stranger,  indeed,  but 
a Christian,  with  bowels  of  mercy,  who  had  grappled  the  wil- 
ful one  by  the  head ; moreover,  undertaking,  before  proceed- 
ing further,  to  abate  the  violent  temper  thereof,  by  abundant 
galloping  to  and  fro  upon  the  plain. 

I suppose  an  involuntary  smile  must  have  played  across 
my  features  at  this  part  of  the  story,  for  the  worthy  Quaker 
evidently  penetrated  my  thought,  and  in  truth  I had  my 
doubts  upon  the  case. 

“I  perceive,  friend,  thou  thinkest  I have  entrusted  my 
horse  to  one  of  the  wicked  ones : — but  thou  ought  to  have  a 
more  charitable  opinion  of  thy  brethren  in  the  flesh.  I feel 
as  secure  of  the  brute  creature,  as  if  I had  him  here  between 
my  thighs.  It  would  have  done  thee  good  to  see  the  honest 
man,  how  he  wrought  with  him,  at  peril  of  his  owm  life  and 
limb,  as  well  as  to  hear  his  comfortable  discourse.  I re- 
member his  very  words.  ‘ Only  sit  still  in  the  shay,’  he 
saith,  ‘ and  keep  your  mind  easy ; — he’s  wonderful  fresh  at 
present,  but  I’m  used  to  the  sort, — and  when  you  get  him  in 
the  shafts  again,  you  won’t  know  him  from  a mouse.’  ” 

The  mention  of  a mouse,  from  some  sort  of  association 
with  smelling  a rat,  here  overcame  my  risible  muscles,  and 
my  comment  on  the  story  took  the  form  of  a violent  fit  of 
laughter,  in  which,  front  mere  sympathy,  the  good-humoured 
Quaker  very  heartily  joined. 

“ It  was,  verily,”  he  said,  “ a ludicrous  speech  enough,  to 
compare  a four-footed  animal  so  large,  with  one  so  small : — 
but  nevertheless,  friend,  the  poor  honest  man  was  quite  in 
earnest.  Sundry  times  he  brought  the  horse  unto  me,  to 
show  his  manner  of  snorting,  and  whinnying,  and  uplifting 
his  heels.  ‘ It’s  about  as  peppery  a one,’  he  saith,  ‘ as  I ever 
took  in  hand : but  only  sit  easy  in  the  shay,  and  I’ll  have  it 


THE  FEESH  IIOESE, 


211 


all  out  of  him,  if  I gallop  him  all  down  to  Salisbury  and 
back.’  ” 

“ You  are  sure,  sir,  he  said  back 

“ Friend,  thou  art  relapsing  into  thy  uncharitableness ; — 
and  if,  as  St.  Paul  saith,  we  lack  charity ” 

“ Excuse  me,  sir — but  I cannot  help  thinking  that  a few 
turns,  under  your  own  eye,  would  have  been  quite  as  effica- 
cious, in  taking  the  freshness  out  of  your  horse,  as  a gallop 
right  on  and  till  he  was  out  of  sight.” 

‘‘  It  is  that  very  argument,  friend,  which  stirs  up  my  con- 
cern. I have  sore  fears  that  the  vicious  horse  hath  run  away 
with  the  honest  man  !” 

And  for  my  part,  sir,  I have  fears  too, — that  the  vicious 
man  has  run  away  with  the  honest  horse.” 

The  benevolent  Quaker  gazed  earnestly  at  me  for  a minute, 
shook  his  head,  pulled  out  the  tract  again  from  his  pocket, 
hemmed,  put  on  his  spectacles,  hemmed  again,  and  forthwith, 
in  a most  solemn  tone,  commenced  an  extempore  sermon  on 
the  text  of  “ Judge  not,  lest  ye  be  judged.”  As  I had  lay  ap- 
pointments of  some  importance,  I found  myself  obliged  to 
interrupt  him  in  the  middle  of  his  homily ; — and  with  an  ap- 
propriate apology,  and  a reiteration  of  the  hope  which  had 
given  occasion  to  the  lecture,  I took  my  leave.  To  a man  of 
the  world,  I need  not  say  which  of  us  proved  to  be  in  the 
right ; but  for  the  sake  of  the  children  of  simplicity,  I will 
give  the  sequel.  About  a year  afterwards,  I encountered  our 
worthy  Quaker  at  a public  meeting  in  the  metropolis ; and 
he  shook  his  head  the  moment  he  saw  me. 

“ Thou  wast  correct,  friend,”  he  said,  “ alas,  too  correct,  in 
thy  judgment  of  the  honest  man  upon  Salisbury  Plain.  Of  a 
surety,  it  was  a fresh  horse  that  drew  me  thither; — and 
verily,  I was  necessitated  to  buy  me  a fresh  horse  to  draw 
me  back  again.” 


212 


AN  INTERGEPTED  DESPATCH, 


There  is  no  subject  more  deplored  in  polite  circles  than 
the  notorious  rudeness  of  what  is  called  Civil  war. 
Suavity,  it  must  be  confessed,  has  little  to  do  with  its  sharp 
practice ; but  of  course  the  adjective  was  prefixed  ironically ; 
or  intended  only  to  refer  to  that  spurious  kind  of  civility 
which  is  professed  in  domestic  feuds,  when  “my  dear”  is 
equivalent  to  “ my  devil.” 

It  is  a question,  however,  worthy  of  an  enlightened  age, 
whether  Civil  W ar  might  not  be  literally  civilized,  and  carried 
on  with  a characteristic  courtesy.  Lumps,  thank  to  the  sugar- 
bakers,  have  been  refined — and  why  not  blows  ? 

Intestinal  strife,  as  at  present  waged,  is  a frightful  anomaly. 
It  runs  counter  to  every  association — moral  or  anatomical. 
A well-regulated  mind  must  be  unable  to  connect  the  idea  of 
polite  hostilities  with  an  unmannerly  soldiery.  It  is  difficult, 
for  instance,  to  conceive  an  Urban  Guard  devoid  of  urbanity. 

A civil  war,  to  deserve  the  name  and  satisfy  the  Eancy, 
must  have  for  Commander  in  Chief,  on  either  side,  a finished 
Gentleman — if  of  the  Old  School,  the  better — as  devoted  to 
the  suaviter  in  modo^  as  to  the  for  titer  in  re.  With  a punc- 
tilious sense  of  the  bland  nature  of  the  strife  he  is  engaged  in, 
he  will  make  politeness  the  order  of  the  day.  The  password 
will  be  “ Sir  Charles  Grandison ;”  and  should  he  feel  com- 
pelled to  publicly  deliver  his  sentiments,  he  will  make  a gen- 
teel address  do  duty  for  an  offensive  manifesto.  Every  officer 
under  him  will  rank  for  complaisance  and  amenity  with  a 
Master  of  the  Ceremonies.  His  dragoons,  with  their  best 
behaviours,  will  be  mounted  on  well-bred  horses : his  cuiras- 


AN  INTERCEPTED  DESPATGIL 


213 


siers  as  polished  as  their  corslets,  and  as  finely  tempered  as 
their  swords.  His  infantry,  all  regulars,  will  adhere  to  the 
standards  of  propriety,  as  well  as  to  the  regimental  colours : 
the  artillery  will  adopt  the  tone  of  good  society, — and  the 
band  will  play  the  agreeable. 

To  prove  that  such  a prospect  is  not  altogether  Utopian,  I 
am  happily  enabled  to  make  public  the  following  letter,  which 
develops  at  least  the  germ  of  a new  system,  that  may  here- 
after make  Civil  War  no  more  a misnomer  than  Polite  Lit- 
erature. It  is  dated  from  Castille  Senior^  and  addressed  to  a 
public  Functionary  at  Madrid. 

. (CVy-) 

“ Your  Excellency, 

“ I had  the  honour  of  describing,  in  my  last  despatch,  a little 
personal  rencontre  with  the  gallant  general  on  the  other  side ; 
and  I have  now  the  pleasure  of  laying  before  you  the  agree- 
able result  of  another  affair,  of  the  same  nature. 

Early  on  the  19th  instant,  our  picquets,  with  a becoming 
deference  to  their  superiors,  retired  from  the  presence  of  a 
large  body  of  cavalry,  and  intimated  that  I might  shortly 
expect  the  favour  of  a visit.  I immediately  sent  the  light 
dragoons  and  lancers  to  the  front,  with  instructions  to  give 
the  gentlemen  on  horseback  a hearty  welcome,  and  provide 
as  they  best  could  for  their  entertainment,  till  I should  be 
prepared  for  their  reception,  as  well  as  of  any  friends  they 
might  bring  with  them.  I flattered  myself,  indeed,  that  I 
should  enjoy  the  company  of  their  whole  army,  and  they 
were  so  good  as  not  to  disappoint  me.  A lively  cannonade 
quickly  announced  their  approach  by  a salute,  which  was 
cordially  returned  from  the  whole  of  our  batteries ; and  then 
a cloud  of  skirmishers  pushed  forward  to  our  front,  and  com- 


214 


AN  INTERCEPTED  DESPATCH. 


menced  a liberal  exchange  of  compliments  with  our  tirailleurs. 
Our  cavalry  in  the  mean  time  had  sought  an  introduction  to 
their  horse,  which  was  met  in  the  handsomest  manner,  and 
many  intimacies  were  formed,  that  only  ended  with  life. 
The  cavalry  at  length  retired,  but  evidently  with  regret,  and 
many  reiterated  promises  of  soon  coming  again. 

“ Their  main  body  now  appeared  napving  in  the  best  dis- 
position towards  us ; whilst  the  rifles  on  the  flanks  paid  the 
most  marked  attention  to  our  officers,  who  received  many  sub- 
stantial tokens  of  their  regard.  A closer  acquaintance  was 
now  sought,  with  an  empressment  quite  flattering ; indeed,  it 
was  difficult  to  reply  in  adequate  terms  to  the  warmth  and 
importunity  of  their  offers.  Perceiving  that  we  had  some 
very  heavy  guns  on  our  right,  they  obligingly  undertook  to 
carry  them ; professing  at  the  same  time  a very  sincere  in- 
clination to  serve  our  light  artillery.  They  also  wished  to 
take  charge  of  a hill  on  the  left  that  might  annoy  us ; but 
had  the  courtesy  to  resign  it  to  Colonel  Bower,  on  a repre- 
sentation that  the  eminence  was  indispensable  to  his  views. 
Their  cavalry  also  endeavoured  gallantly  to  make  a favour- 
able impression  on  us;  and  in  particular  evinced  a lively 
desire  to  visit  some  of  our  squares ; but  which,  on  the  plea 
of  inconvenience,  we  found  means  to  decline.  There  had 
manifestly  been  a design  of  dropping  in  upon  us  unprepared, 
but  fortunately  I was  enabled  to  foil  the  pleasantry,  and  even 
to  turn  the  tables  upon  themselves.  The  enemy  finally  gave 
up  every  point,  and  handsomely  offered  to  accommodate  us 
with  the  field  of  battle ; but  feeling  bound  in  politeness  to  re- 
turn the  visit,  I ordered  an  advance  of  the  whole  line ; and 
we  were  at  once  hospitably  permitted  to  enter  their  lines 
without  ceremony,  and  make  ourselves  at  home  in  their 
camp.  In  justice  to  their  generosity  I must  not  omit  to  state 
that  we  found  it  abundantly  provisioned — the  artillery  entire- 


AN  INTERCEPTED  DESPATCH. 


215 


ly  placed  at  our  command — the  whole  baggage  devoted  to 
our  use,  and  even  the  military  chest  left  very  much  at  our 
service. 

“The  list  of  casualties  is  not  yet  made  up — but  I am  in 
possession  of  some  of  ^the  details.  The  19th  was  politely  in- 
vited to  a masked  battery,  and  a succession  of  balls,  kept  up 
with  a spirit  that  the  regiment,  and  Major  Smith  in  particular, 
will  long  remember.  Cornet  B$)wer  is  deeply  indebted  to  a 
lancer,  who  helped  ^ him  off  his  horse ; and  Captain  Curtis  is 
lying  under  a similar  obligation  in  the  hospital.  Captain 
Flint  owes  the  cure  of  his  asthma  to  the  skill  of  a carbineer ; 
and  Lieutenant  Power  was  favoured  with  as  specific  a remedy 
for  determination  of  blood  to  the  head.  Colonel  Boult  was 
handsomely  presented  with  the  freedom  of  the  field,  enclosed 
in  a shell ; and  Major  Brooke  is  absent,  having  received  a 
pressing  invitation  that  he  could  not  well  resist — to  visit  the 
enemy’s  quarters. 

“ I have  the  honour  to  be,  &c.,  &c.,  &c. 

(Signed)  “ Manners. 

(Countersigned)  “ Chesterfield.” 


\ 


VALUABLE  MW  AND  STANDARD  WORKS, 

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